m 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


TALES 


REAL  LIFE: 


BELL  MARTIN,  PRIDE  AND  PRINCIPLE 

FAMILY  PRIDE, 
MARY  ELLIS,  AND  ALICE  MELLYILLE. 


BY  T.  S.  ARTHUR. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.  W.  BRADLEY,  48  N.  FOURTH  STREET. 

1858.  \ 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 
J.     W.     BRADLEY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and 
for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PHILADELPHIA  : 

PRINTED   BY   KINO  &   BAIRD, 

607   8AN90M   STREET. 


BELL  MARTIN. 


CHAPTER  L 

SPRIGS   OF   AMERICAN  ARISTOCRACY. 

"  ARE  you  going  to  Mr.  Martin's  grand  «  come- 
off,'  to-morrow  evening,  Harry  )"  asked  one  young 
man  of  another,  as  they  lounged  in  the  bar-room 
|  of  the  Mansion  House. 

"  Of  course  I  am.     Will  you  be  there  1" 

"  O,  yes.  I  never  miss  being  present  on  such 
occasions.  But  say,  Harry,  are  you  serious  in 
that  matter  about  pretty  Bell  7" 

"  Am  I  ?  What  a  question  for  you  to  ask  ! 
Certainly  I  am." 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  get  around  the  old  man, 
her  father  ?" 

"  I  can  try.  My  family  is  as  srood  as  his.  So 
you  see  we  are  even  there.  But  I  do  n't  think 
much  about  him,  now.  I  must  first  get  the  right 
side  of  Bell." 

"  How  do  you  expect  to  manage  that?" 

"  By  talking  sentiment,  paying  her  the  most 
flattering  attentions  possible,  and  being  her  most 
humble  servant  on  all  occasions." 

"  She  will  have  a  splendid  fortune." 

"  There  is  no  mistake  about  that." 

"  How  large  do  you  think  '.'" 


4  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  I  have  ascertained,  pretty  certainly,  that  ola 
Martin  is  worth  about  nine  hundred  thousand 
dollars.  He  has  two  children.  They  will  divide 
at  his  death  over  three  hundred  thousand  dollars 
a  piece,  after  the  widow's  one-third  has  been 
taken  out.  And  she,  of  course,  is  not  going  to 
live  forever." 

"  Of  course  not.  And  you  would  come  in,  if 
you  had  the  daughter,  for  half  of  that  sum  also." 

"  Exactly.  Now  is  n't  there  a  glorious  prospect 
before  me  1" 

"  There  is,  really.  A  golden  opportunity,  like 
this,  must  not  pass,  unimproved." 

"  Nor  will  it." 

"How  do  you  stand  with  Bell?" 

"  Pretty  fair,  I  think.  Last  week  I  was  at  a 
party  with  her,  and  broke  the  ice.  She  is  young, 

fou  know,  and  as  frank  and  innocent  as  a  child. 
really  felt  my  heart  warm  toward  her." 

"  Indeed !  That  was  a  phenomenon !"  said  the 
friend  laughing. 

"  Was  n't  it !  But  do  n't  be  alarmed.  I  'm  not 
going  to  fall  in  love  with  her  until  I  find  the  coast 
clear." 

"  Don't,  if  you  please,  or  I  shall  be  compelled  to 
cut  your  acquaintance." 

"  Never  fear.  A  young  man  of  my  habits  can 't 
afford  to  fall  in  love,  unless  he  is  sure  of  success." 

"  And  certain  of  gaining  a  fortune." 

"  Of  course.     That  was  pre-supposed." 

"  Are  you  going  to  buy  that  splendid  pair  of 
horses,  belonging  to  Porter,  which  you  drove  out 
yesterday  ?" 

"  I  wish  to  do  so." 

"He  asks  twelve  hundred  dollars  for  them,  I 
believe." 

"  Yes.  But  I  think  would  not  refuse  a  thousand 
if  laid  down  before  him." 


SPRIGS    OP   AMERICAN   ARISTOCRACY.  5 

«  Why  do  n't  you  take  them,  Harry  1  They  are 
worth  all  of  that." 

"  I  've  sounded  my  old  man  about  it.  But  he 
looks  black  so  soon  as  I  begin  to  approach  the 

SU"3What  a  bore !  I  wonder  if  either  of  us  will 
ever  get  our  fingers  upon  some  of  our  dads'  cash, 
to  spend  it  as  we  please  1" 

"  I  hope  so,  one  of  these  days.  Won't  I  put  it 
in  circulation,  then!"  snapping  his  fingers,  and 
winking  with  a  knowing  look.  "  It  will  be  one 
of  the  strangest  things  in  nature,  if  I  do  n't." 

"  What  an  annoyance  it  is,"  said  the  companion 
of  the  one  called  Harry,  "to  have  rich  old  faiiun-s 
like  ours,  to  tantalize  us  with  the  idea  of  weaith 
in  prospective,  while  they  give  us  but  the  mere 
trifle  of  two  or  three  thousand  a  year  to  spend." 

"  It  is  indeed !  But  what  do  you  think  1  My 
old  man  told  me,  yesterday,  that  he  thought  it 
high  time  that  I  was  beginning  to  do  something." 

"  Do  something !" 

"  Yes." 

»  What  did  he  mean  by  that  1" 

"  Open  an  office  for  the  practice  of  law,  1  sup- 
pose. You  know  that,  to  please  him,  I  studied 
law  for  a  year  or  two — got  squeezed  through  an 
examination,  and  entered  as  a  member  of  the 
Philadelphia  bar." 

"Yes,  I  remember  now;  ha!  ha!  And  he 
wanted  you  to  put  up  your  shingle,  '  Eternally  at 
Law'  and  come  into  association  with  the  filth  and 
off-scouring  of  this  righteous  city,— Pickpockets, 
thieves,  blackguards,  etc." 

"  Yes,  that  was  it." 

"  But  you  had  no  notion  of  such  a  thing  1 

"  Not  I.  Why  do  I  want  to  practice  law,  or  do 
any  thing  else]  Has  n't  the  old  man  plenty  of 


i 

6  BELL   MARTIN 

I  $ 

money  ?    Ain't  I  born  a  gentleman  ?    Let  the  com-         \ 
rnon  herd  work,  say  I." 

"Ditto.  Only  about  every  tenth  man  that  is  ; 
born,  as  some  one  has  said,  can  afford  to  do  > 
nothing.  Thank  fortune  !  I  am  one  of  the  decimal  '(/ 
numbers." 

•<  "  So  is  this  child.    It 's  no  use  for  the  old  man          / 

to  talk  to  me.    I  'm  not  going  to  open  an  office  and 
stick  up  my  name,  to  be  reduced  in  public  estima-          > 
tion  to  a  mere  pettifogging  lawyer." 

"  But  would  n't  it  be  policy  for  you  to  do  so  ?" 

"  How  1" 

"  To  make  fair  weather  with  old  Martin." 

"  How  would  my  opening  an  office  make  fair 
weather  with  him  1" 

"  He  is  a  merchant  1" 

"  Yes." 

"And  by  industry  and  enterprise  has  quad- 
rapled  the  fortune  left  him  by  his  father." 

"  So  I  have  heard  it  said." 

"From  persevering  in  industrious  habits  him-  £ 
self,  he  has,  doubtless,  come  to  have  a  high  esti-  ; 
mation  of  industry  in  others." 

"  There  may  be  something  in  tha't." 

"  Naturally,  then,  he  would  be  inclined  to  think 
favorably  of  a  young  man,  pursuing,  with  appa-          \ 
rent  industry,  some  business  or  profession,  while 
he  would  look  unfavorably  upon  one  whom  he 
would  call  a  mere  idler." 

"  I  see  the  force  of  what  you  say ;  and  wonder 
that  the  idea  never  presented  itself  to  my  mind,          \ 
But  do  n't  you  think  the  fact  of  my  being  known          / 
as  only  a  young  lawyer,  would  lessen  my  estima- 
{          tion  in  the  eyes  of  Bell  ?" 

"  I  do  n't  know.    Perhaps  it  might." 

"  I  fear  so.  She  's  a  young  romantic  thing,  and 
the  idea  of  a  common  workie — for  all  these  law- 
yers and  merchants,  and  the  like,  are  as  much 


SPRIGS    OF   AMERICAN   ARISTOCRACY.  / 

workies  as  mere  mechanics — might  give  her  a 
prejudice  against  me." 

"  There  is  force  in  that  view." 

"  And  suppose  some  foreign  earl,  or  count  were 
to  come  along  and  take  a  notion  to  her — what 
chance  would  a  mere  lawyer  have  1  None  at  all. 
O,  no  !  I  must  still  keep  up  the  gentleman,  until 
I  Ve  got  her  hooked,  and  then  for  scheming  it  over 
the  old  codger,  her  father  !" 

"I  believe  you  are  right,  Harry  But  come, 
let 's  have  a  drink,  and  then  for  a  ride  out  to 
Howell's." 

The  two  young  sprigs  of  American  aristocracy 
then  turned  to  the  bar,  and  each  a  took  a  strong 
glass  of  brandy  punch,  preparatory  to  their  ride 
into  the  country.  Fifteen  minutes  afterward  they 
were  dashing  up  Chesnut  street  behind  a  pair  of 
beautiful  horses,  owned  by  the  friend  of  Harry, 
or  Henry  Ware,  with  feelings  of  contempt  for  the 
spiritless  pedestrians  who  plodded  along  the  side- 
\  walks. 

The  reader  needs  no  further  description  of  their 
characters,  than  what  they  have  themselves  given, 
to  be  able  to  appreciate  them  fully.  Both  were 
sons  of  wealthy  merchants,  wrongly  educated. 
The  systematic  labor  by  which  their  parents  had 
risen  into  wealth  and  station  in  society,  they  des- 
pised as  something  degrading.  Idle  pleasure 
seemed  to  them  the  only  worthy  object  of  pur- 
suit. Every  thing  else  was  beneath  the  station 
\  and  dignity  of  true  gentlemen.  Spendthrifts — 
the  liberal  supplies  of  money  furnished  them  with 
a  false  liberality  by  their  fathers,  were  altogether 
insufficient  to  meet  their  growing  and  extrava- 
gant wants.  Hence,  the  means  of  obtaining 
more  inexhaustible  and  independent  supplies, 
soon  formed  part  of  their  thoughts.  They  had 
become  men,  and,  as  men,  were  annoyed  by 


BELL   MARTIN. 
Wl 


hat  they  esteemed  the  niggardly  parental  offer- 
ings. To  such,  marriage  presents  the  only  way 
to  obtain  the  large  amount  of  money  called  ibr  by 
extravagant  habits  and  unsatisfied  desires.  And 
to  thoughts  of  marriage  their  minds,  especially 
that  of  Henry  Ware,  turned ;  and  he  was  about 
entering,  as  has  been  seen,  with  no  small  degree 
of  tact  and  earnestness,  upon  the  business  he  had 
laid  out  as  necessary  to  be  done; — it  is  said, 
necessary  to  be  done,  for  only  in  a  business  light 
did  young  Ware  view  the  matter.  If  he  had 
been  in  possession  of  as  much  money  as  he 
wanted,  he  would  have  thought  of  a  wife  about  the 
last  thing.  With  such  an  encumbrance,  he  would 
have  been  very  far  from  burdening  himself. 


CHAPTER  IL 

(• 

LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

"How  does  that  look,  Fanny?"  asked  Bell  Mar- 
tin, turning  her  happy  face  toward  her  sister,  and 
directing  attention  to  a  beautiful  head  dress  that  a         \ 
modest-looking,  plainly  attired  girl,  about  her  own 
age,  had  been  arranging  for  her. 
"""  Very  pretty  indeed,  sister ;   Mary  is  always 
tasty  in  her  devices  and  arrangements." 

"  Is  n't  she  ?    We  must  try  and  find  you  a  nice          ? 
husband,  Alary." 

Mary  smiled  quietly,  but  made  no  reply.    Her 
station  did   not  permit  her  to  return  jests,  and          ', 
knowing  this,  she  never  attempted  to  do  so.     But 
still,  she  had  her  own  thoughts,  as  well  as  they." 

"  I  think  that  white  rose  is  a  little  too  much  con-          < 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

cealed,  Mary,  do  n't  you  ?"  remarked  Bell,  after 
having  surveyed  herself  for  some  time  in  the 
glass. 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  replied  Mary,  lifting  her  hand 
to  re-adjust  the  flower. 

"  But  stop,  Mary,"  interposed  the  light-hearted 
girl,  taking  hold  of  her  hand  before  she  had 
touched  the  rose.  "  That  'perhaps'  was  rather 
coldly  said.  You  do  n't  really  think  the  flower 
too  much  hid — now  do  you1" 

"  No,  I  do  not,  or  else  I  would  have  brought  it 
out  more." 

"Then  I  won't  have  it  touched,  for  I  never 
opposed  my  taste  to  yours  yet,  that  you  were  not 
in  the  right,"  Bell  replied,  laughing. 

"  You  are  very  particular  this  evening,  sister," 
remarked  Fanny. 

"  Am  1 ?    Well  I  have  my  reason  for  it." 

"Ah!    What  is  it?" 

"  I  'm  going  to  captivate  young  Harry  Ware." 

"  Indeed !" 

"  Yes.  I  intend  carrying  the  citadel  of  his 
heart  by  storm." 

"  Take  care  that  you  do  not  lose  your  own  in 
the  contest." 

••  Oh,  never  fear  but  that  I  '11  keep  fast  hold  of 
mine,  at  least  till  I  see  something  to  gain  by  at 
surrender." 

"  Harry  is  certainly  a  very  captivating  young 
man.  Do  n't  you  think  so,  Mary  ]" 

1'irectly  appealed  to,  although  in  a  laughing 
mood,  Mary  replied  with  the  frankness  of  a  sin- 
cei  e  heart, 

"  I  have  not  had  an  opportunity  of  observing 
(,  him  very  closely;  but  the  little  I  have  seen  i.j' 
him  has  not  prepossessed  me  a  great  deal  in  his 
favor." 

"Has  n't  it,  indeed!  Miss  Demure]" 


10  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  It  has  not,  Bell ;  but  no  doubt  I  can  judge  a 
flower  for  a  young  lady  of  your  position  in 
society,  much  better  than  I  can  a  lover." 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  why  do  n't  you  like  Harry 
Ware,  Mary?" 

"  Did  I  say  that  I  did  not  like  him  ?" 

"  No.  But  you  said  you  were  not  prepossessed 
in  his  favor  ?" 

"  That  is  true." 

"Then  why  are  you  not  prepossessed  in  his 
favor?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  do  n't  know.  But  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  n't  like  to  see  you  the  wife  of  Mr.  Ware." 

The  voice  of  the  maiden  trembled  slightly  as 
she  said  this,  and  her  tones  had  in  them  some- 
thing of  tenderness ;  for  she  loved  Bell  Martin  and 
her  sister — although  standing  to  them  only  in  the 
relation  of  one  that  served — almost  as  purely  as 
if  they  were  of  her  own  kindred. 

"His  wife,  Mary!  How  strangely  you  talk! 
No  one  said  any  thing  about  becoming  his  wife. 
O,  dear !  That 's  another  matter,  altogether." 

"It's  the  next  thing  that  follows  the  winning 
and  losing  of  hearts,  though,  I  believe,"  replied 
Mary  the  color  on  her  cheek  deepeninsr. 

"Is 'it,  Mary?"  Bless  me!  how  the"girl  ta}ks 
And  see  how  she  is  blushing,  Fanny!  As  I  live 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  do  believe  she  has  lost 
her  heart  already.  I  thought  Mr.  Lane,  Pa's  head 
clerk,  came  here  pretty  often  of  late." 

This  speech  had  the  effect  to  make  poor  Mary's 
face  as  red  as  scarlet. 

"  There !  See  that !  See  that,  Fanny !  Just 
look  at  her  face !  Now,  who  would  have  sus- 
pected our  modest,  quiet  Mary  ?" 

"  The  next  thing  that  follows  the  losing  and 
winning  of  hearts,  is  marriage,  I  believe,  ain't  it, 
Mary  ?"  said  Fanny,  with  mock  seriousness. 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM.  13 

ning  to  come,  and  we  must  be  down  to  receive 
them." 

Among  the  first  who  came,  were  Henry  Ware 

;  and  his  two  sisters,  with  whom  Bell  and  Fanny 

were  on  terms  of  intimacy.     The  young  man,  as 

has   been   seen,  had  resolved  on  making  a  con- 

';  quest;   he,  therefore,   had  dressed  himself  with 

studied  care,  so  as  to  bring  out  into  good  effect 

his  really  attractive  person. 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice 
and  the  expression  of  his  face,  when  he  saluted 
Bell,  already  prepossessed  in  his  favor,  that  made 
her  heart  quicken  its  pulsations,  and  send  the 
blood  in  warmer  currents  to  her  cheek.  Henry 
Ware  did  not  fail  to  observe  the  slight  glow  that 
mantled  her  young  and  innocent  lace,  nor  the 
pleasure  that  sparkled  in  her  eye.  They  strength- 
ened his  hope  of  success. 

"  She  is  mine,  in  spite  of  the  d— 1 !"  was  the 
elegant  and  manly  expression  of  his  thoughts, 
whispered  to  himself,  as  he  turned  from  her  to 
address  her  sister. 

Whenever,  without  attracting  particular  obser- 
vation, he  could  get  by  her  side  during  the  even- 
ing, he  was  sure  to  be  there ;  and  all  his  conver- 
i  sation  was  skilfully  managed,  so  as  to  excite  in 
plner  mind  tender  emotions. 

yo\  Attached  to  Mr.  Martin's  elegant  residence  was 

we  large  garden,  richly  adorned  with  plants  of  the 

to  eciest  kinds.    It  was  laid  off  in  beautifully  ar- 

not  K?ed  walks,  with  arbors  and  alcoves,  statuary 

I  have  every  tasteful  device  that  could  please  the 

The  lAlways,  during  an  evening  entertainment 

lashes  ncsant  weather,  it  was  brilliantly  illuminated 

"  We  wiegated  lamps,  ingeniously  arranged  into 

response  oind  striking  figures. 

around  the1  a  portion  of  the  company  might  always 

are   differentrolling  about,  thus  dividing  the  allure- 

2 


14  BELL   MARGIN. 

ments  of  the  social  circle  with  the  calmer  and 
more  elevating  delights  of  nature. 

"  Come,  Bell,  suppose  we  take  a  little  walk  in 
the  garden ; — the  air  of  these  rooms  is  becoming 
oppressive,"  said  Ware  to  the  gentle  girl  who 
't  leaned  upon  his  arm.  "  We  have  danced  and 
sung,  and  mingled  pleasantly  in  the  gay  circle 
here  for  some  two  hours.  A  change  to  the  quiet 
scene  without  will  be  very  pleasant." 

"It  certainly  will,"  replied  Bell,  making  an  in 
voluntary  movement  toward  the  door. 

The  two  then  retired  from  the  brilliantly  lighted 
saloon  and  gay  company,  and  entered  the  garden. 
The  air  was  mild,  and  balmy  from  the  perfume 
rising  from  a  thousand  odoriferous  flowers.  The 
moon  and  stars  looked  down  from  a  sky  of  unu- 
sual brilliancy,  and  shed  their  soft  light,  like  a  veil 
of  silver  over  all  things. 

"Beautiful!  beautiful!"  ejaculated  Bell,  as  she 
perceived  and  felt  the  loveliness  of  the  scene. 

"  It  is,  indeed,  very  beautiful !"  replied  her  com- 
panion, uttering  a  sentiment  he  scarcely  felt.  His 
mind  was  too  selfishly  interested  in  securing  the 
affections  of  the  maiden,  to  care  any  thing  about 
a  lovely  moonlight  scene,  except  so  far  as  it  might 
tend  to  aid  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose. 
He  could,  therefore,  perceive  the  beauty  of  ex- 
ternal nature,  but  not  feel  it. 

Slowly,  they  took  their  way  down  one  of  the 
most  retired  alleys  of  the  garden.  Bell,  whose 
feelings  the  scene  around  had  almost  instantly 
softened  into  tenderness,  leaned  with  an  air  of 
affectionate  confidence  upon  the  arm  of  Ware, 
and  listened  to  his  artful  and  insinuating  words, 
that,  while  they  spoke  not  of  his  own  thoughts 
and  feelings,  were  fraught  with  just  the  senti- 
ments calculated  to  awaken  the  heart  of  one  so 


r 


LOVE'3   YOUNG  DREAM. 

young  and  by  nature  so  affectionate  as  the  inno- 
cent maiden  by  his  side. 

"  Let  us  rest  here  for  awhile,  and  enjoy  the  calm 
delight  of  this  lovely  season,"  the  young  man 
said,  after  having  strayed  through  the  garden  for 
some  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  pausing  as  he  did  so, 
before  an  arbor  thickly  shaded  by  a  vine,  upon 
which  the  yet  unripe  clusters  hung  in  luxuriant 
profusion. 

"  How  much  I  enjoy  a  scene  like  this,"  he  re- 
marked, after  they  were  seated,  thus  alone.  "  It 
has  in  it  something  so  purifying  and  elevating  to 
the  spirit.  Something  that  lifts  us  above  the  base 
ideas  and  grovelling  affections  of  this  sordid 
world.  It  is  under  the  influence  of  an  hour  like 
this  that  we  feel  ourselves  to  be  immortal." 

"  Do  you  remember  L.  E.  L.'s  lines  '  On  a 
Star?' "  asked  Bell,  after  a  brief  silence. 

"  I  do  not." 

"That  brilliant  star,  yonder,  has  recalled  the 
touching  effusion  to  my  mind." 

"  Can  you  repeat  the  lines  to  which  you  allude  T' 

"  O  yes.  For  I  have  thought  of  them  hundreds 
of  times." 

"  Then  recite  them,  Bell." 

The  maiden  complied,  and  recited,  in  a  ow 
voice,  full  of  pathos,  the  following  lines: 

"  Beautiful  star,  that  art  wandering  through 
The  midnight  ocean's  waves  of  blue ! 
I  have  watched  since  thy  first  pale  ray 
Rose  on  the  farewell  of  summer's  day. 
From  thy  first  sweet  shine  in  the  twilight  hour, 
To  thy  present  blaze  of  beauty  and  power! 
Would  I  could  read  my  destiny. 
Lovely  and  glorious  star,  in  thee! 
Yet  why  should  I  wish? — I  know  too  well 
What  thy  tablet  of  light  would  tell! 
What,  O,  what,  could  I  read  there 
But  the  depths  of  love's  despair, — 


16  BELL   MARTIN. 

Blighted  feelings,  like  leaves  that  fall 

The  first  from  April's  coronal, — 

Hopes,  like  meteors,  that  shine  and  depart — 

An  early  grave  and  a  broken  heart  J" 

"  A  beautiful  beginning  but  a  sad  ending,  Bel1 
Why  should  such  poetry  be  a  favorite  with  you  1 
But  that  brilliant  star,  overhead,  if  the  star  of  thy 
destiny,  would  reveal  a  brighter  page." 

"I  hope  so.  Still,  I  have  always  loved  those 
lines,  and  have  repeated  them  over,  almost  invol- 
untarily, a  hundred  times,  until  my  feelings  have 
become  imbued  with  their  sadness.  Heaven 
grant  that  they  be  not  prophetic  of  wrecked  hopes 
and  a  broken  heart  for  mo." 

Bell  spoke  with  emotion — for,  suddenly,  there 
came  over  her  heart  a  chilling  fear,  that  seemed 
like  a  prophetic  warning. 

"How  strange  that  you  should  speak  thus!" 
said  her  companion,  in  surprise.  "  You,  than 
whom  no  one  has  a  brighter  prospect; — you, 
every  footstep  of  whose  way  has,  thus  far,  been 
upon  flowers." 

"  It  is  strange  that  I  should  feel  thus.  But  it  is 
only  when  I  repeat  those  verses,  that  there  falls 
upon  my  heart  a  shadow." 

"  Then  I  would  never  repeat  them  again ;  for 
they  mock  you  with  idle  fears." 

"  I  believe  they  do,"  replied  Bell,  rallying  her- 
self with  an  effort. 

"  How  exquisitely  falls  that  music  upon  the  ear 
softened  by  distance,"  remarked  Ware,  after 
another  pause.  "  It  comes  like  the  swelling  and 
subsiding  tones  of  the  wind-touched  ^Eolian." 

"  Music  never  came  to  me  with  such  sweet- 
ness before,"  said  the  maiden,  in  innocence  and 
simplicity.  «'  It  seems  as  if  I  could  listen  to  it  for- 
ever " 


LOVE'S   YOUNG    DREAM. 

"  I  feel  the  same  subdued  and  tender  impres- 
sions," replied  the  young  man,  in  a  low,  soft  tone, 

"  But  come,"  he  added,  after  a  brief  silence, 
"  we  will  be  missed." 

"  True — true  !  I  had  forgotten,  under  the  sweet 
influence  of  the  hour,  that  others  are  to  be  thought 
of  and  regarded." 

The  two  then  returned,  slowly,  arm  in  arm 
entered  the  house,  and  rejoined  the  gay  groups 
within. 

It  was  past  two  o'clock  when  the  last  visiter  de- 
parted. Mary,  who  had  superintended  the  arrange- 
ments of  the  party,  after  all  were  gone  and  a  few 
directions  had  been  given  to  the  servants,  went 
up  to  the  room  of  Bell  and  Fanny  to  assist  in  un- 
dressing them.  She  found  the  former  seated  by 
a  window  in  a  musing  attitude,  looking  out  upon 
the  brilliant  sky. 

"  Come,  Mary,  you  must  attend  to  me  first,  for 
Bell  is  away  up  among  the  stars,  and  won't  be 
down  again  for  half  an  hour." 

Mary  smiled  at  this  pleasant  sally,  but  Bell  did 
not  seem  to  hear  it. 

"  There,  Mary,  you  can  go  to  star-gazing  with 
Bell  if  you  choose, — I  'm  going  to  court  a  few 
pleasant  dreams!"  she  added,  in  a  little  while, 
springing  lightly  into  bed.  In  a  few  minutes  she 
was  fast  asleep. 

Mary  turned,  and  stood  looking  For  some  mo- 
ments at  Bell,  who  was  still  lost  in  deep  abstrac- 
tion. Then  going  up  to  her,  she  laid  her  hand 
gently  on  her  arm,  and  said — 

"  Shall  I  assist  you  to  undress  7" 

"  If  you  please,  Mary,"  replied  Bell,  looking  up 
with  a  deep  sigh,  and  then  submitting  to  Mary's 
hands  in  silence.  Her  rich  attire  was  soon 
changed  for  garments  of  snowy  whiteness,  and  in 
these  she  asrain  took  her  place  by  the  window. 
2* 


18  BELL    MARTIN. 

and  lifted  her  young  face  once  more  to  the  sky 
that  was  sparkling  in  beauty  and  brightness. 

As  Mary  turned  to  leave  the  chamber,  she  felt 
a  strong  reluctance  to  do  so.  For  a  few  moments 
she  hesitated,  and  then  going  back,  she  said  in  a 
respectful  tone — 

"  You  do  not  seem  like  yourself  to-night,  Bell." 

The  maiden  roused  herself  again  at  this,  and 
after  looking  into  Mary's  face  for  an  instant  or 
two,  said — 

"Come,  and  sit  down  here,  Mary." 

Mary  complied  in  silence. 

"I  am  not  myself  to-night.  In  that  you  say 
truly.  But  what  ails  me  I  cannot  tell.  I  have 
never  felt  the  influence  of  a  scene  like  this  as  I  do 
now.  It  seems  as  if  I  could  sit  and  gaze  forever 
upon  the  sky  and  its  myriads  of  beautiful  stars. 
Let  me  repeat  to  you  some  verses  of  that  exquisite 
poetess,  L.  E.  L.  They  describe  this  hour  and 
tnis  scene  most  beautifully. 


'  Look  up 

Toward  the  beautiful  heaven !  the  fair  moon 
Is  shining  timidly,  like  a  young  queen, 
Who  fears  to  claim  her  full  authority  : 
The  stars  shine  in  her  presence ;  o'er  the  sky 
A  few  light  clouds  are  wandering,  like  the  feai 
That  even  happy  love  must  know ;  the  air 
Is  full  of  perfume  and  most  musical, 
Although  no  other  sounds  are  on  the  gale 
Than  the  soft  falling  of  the  mountain  rill 
Or  the  waving  of  the  leaves." 


Is  that  not  appropriate  and  beautiful  ?" 

"  Very.  But  it  is  too  late  now  to  be  gazing  at 
the  moon  and  stars,  and  repeating  poetry,  Bell. 
Come,  get  into  bed  and  go  to  sleep.  A  good 
night's  repose  will  calm  down  your  over  excited 
feelings.  Come !  or  I  shall  really  think  that  in  the 


PARENTAL    ANXIETIES.  19 

effort  to  captivate  the  heart  of  Henry  Ware,  you 
have  lost  your  own  !" 

Thus  rallied,  Bell  came  more  to  herself,  and  after 
having  been  urged  again  by  Mary,  retired  to  her 
bed.  It  was  long,  however,  before  she  sunk  into 
slumber,  and  that  was  full  of  the  dreams  of  a 
maiden's  first,  pure,  ardent  love  for  one  she  fondly 
invests  with  a  thousand  perfections. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

PARENTAL   ANXIETIES. 

"  AH  !  Good  morning,  Harry  !  Good  morn- 
ing !» 

"  Good  morning,  Tom.  I  'm  glad  to  see  you  ! 
How  are  you,  my  boy?  How  are  you ?"  grasping 
the  hand  that  was  extended,  and  shaking  it  long 
and  heartily. 

"  Really,  Harry,  you  seem  to  be  on  the  moun- 
tain top  this  morning." 

"  And  so  I  am.  Confound  it,  old  fellow !  I  'm 
sure  of  success !" 

"  So  I  should  suspect,  after  seeing  the  peculiar 
manner  in  which  Bell  leaned  on  your  arm,  last 
night." 

"  You  observed  it,  then,  did  you1?" 

"  O,  of  course." 

"And  1  felt  it,  Tom:  which  was  a  thousand 
times  better  !  She 's  mine  as  sure  as  fate !  I  knew 
that  I  would  prove  irresistible  if  I  only  laid  my- 
self out  for  it.  I  'm  not  the  commonest  looking 
fellow  that  walks  Chestnut  street — am  I1" 


20  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  No,  not  by  a  dozen.  But,  say,  Harry,  did  you 
break  the  ice  1" 

"How''" 

"  Did  you  talk  love  to  her  T* 

"  O,  no  !  only  poetry  and  sentiment.  Last  night 
I  spent  most  of  the  time  in  reading  her  character, 
which  I  found  I  could  do  as  readily  as  I  can  read 
a  book." 

"  Well,  how  were  you  pleased  with  it  ]" 

"  Admirably,  of  course !" 

"  She  '11  make  just  the  wife  you  want !" 

"  The  what  1" 

"  The  wife." 

"  Fal-lal !    I  'm  not  looking  out  for  a  wife." 

"  For  what,  then  ?" 

"  You  're  simple,  Tom !  For  a  fortune,  of 
course.  Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  our  con- 
versation of  yesterday  1  As  to  the  wife  part,  no 
doubt  that  will  be  well  enough.  Still,  I  'm  a  little 
afraid." 

"Of  what  1" 

"  Afraid  that  she  will  love  me  too  well." 

"  Love  you  too  well )" 

"  Aye  !  There  rests  my  only  fear.  But  that 's 
her  look  out — not  mine." 

"  I  do  n't  see  any  particular  objection  to  her 
loving  you  as  hard  as  she  pleases." 

"  You  're  dull  this  morning,  Tom.  I  would  like 
a  wife,  if  I  must  have  one, — an  inevitable  neces- 
sity, I  believe,  since  my  old  man  is  so  close  with 
his  purse-strings — who  would  mind  her  own  con- 
cerns and  let  me  mind  mine.  She  might  have 
her  own  establishment  if  she  chose,  and  dash  it 
in  any  kind  of  style  that  pleased  her.  Of  course, 
I  should  want  the  same  privilege.  Now,  from 
what  I  can  see  of  Bell,  she  's  not  exactly  that  kind 
of  a  body.  She  would  want  hei  husband  tied  to 
her  apron  strings  all  th3  while.  Would  want  to 


r 

PARENTAL    ANXIETIES.  21 

be  kissed  twenty  times  a  day,  and  all  that  silly 
nonsense.  Or  else  there  would  be  a  constant 
succession  of  April  showers.  Do  you  understand 
now  7" 

"  Clearly !  But  that 's  a  risk  you  will  have  to 
run.  A  consequence  that  must  be  endured,  if  it 
can  't  be  helped.  Money  will  cover  a  multitude 
of  sins  and  imperfections." 

"  You  're  right,  Tom !  and  if  she  chooses  to  in- 
dulge in  all  that  sentimental  kind  of  nonsense, 
she  must  take  the  consequence.  For  certain  it 
is,  I  can  't  stomach  it,  and  will  not.  I  '11  leave  her 
in  freedom  to  come  in  when  she  pleases,  go  out 
when  she  pleases,  and  do  what  she  pleases ;  and,  > 
as  I  want  nothing  but  what  is  fair,  shall  take  the 
same  privilege  myself."  * 

"  Precisely !  You  seem  to  be  pretty  sure  of 
her,  however1?" 

"  So  I  am.  I  made  an  impression  last  night, 
that  is  not  going  to  be  effaced." 

"  But  suppose  the  old  man  will  not  consent!" 

"Did  you  never  hear  of  a  runaway  match,          ', 
Tom?" 

"  O,  yes,"  laughingly. 

"  Then  you  '11  hear  of  another,  in  that  case. 
Do  you  understand  1" 

"  Perfectly  !    You  're  a  rare  fellow,  Harry." 

"Ain't  II  Still,  I  must  avoid  that  last  neces- 
sity, if  possible.  It  might  stand  in  the  way  of 
my  fingering  the  old  fellow's  cash  as  soon  as  I 
wish." 

"  You  'd  better  be  looking  out  for  an  office 
then,  had  n't  you  7" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  had.  Confound  the  neces- 
sity !  What  fools  some  of  these  old  codgers  are  ! 
A  man  is  nothing  in  their  eyes,  unless  he  is  a 
workie.  Pah !" 

"  What  a  figure    you  will    cut,  sitting    with 


22  BELL   MARTIN. 

solemn  importance  in  your  office,  surrounded 
with  books,  and  a  tin  sign  on  your  window — 
'  Henry  Ware,  Attorney  at  Law.'1  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !" 

"  Do  hush,  Tom !  or  I  shall  get  sick !" 

"  It  '11  have  to  be  done,  though.  I  wonder  who 
will  be  youi  rirst  client  ]" 

"  Some  loafer,  up  for  assault  and  battery,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  As  likely  as  not.  But  come,  I  have  an  engage- 
ment at  twelve,  and  it  is  that  now." 

"  Let  us  drink  first,"  replied  Harry,  and  turn- 
ing to  the  bar-keeper — for  they  had  met,  as  usual, 
in  a  tavern — ordered  some  brandy.  The  two 
worthies  then  drank  success  to  Harry's  enter- 
prise, and  parted. 

It  was,  probably,  an  hour  after  that  young 
Ware  entered  his  father's  counting-room,  and 
after  glancing  over  the  newspapers,  sought  an 
opportunity  to  converse  with  the  old  gentleman. 

"  I  've  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  what          ', 
you  suggested  a  few  days  ago,  father,"  he  said, 
with  a  serious  air. 

"  Well,  to  what  conclusion  have  you  come  f" 
was  the  reply,  in  a  grave  tone. 

"  That  you  are  right.  A  young  man  of  my  age 
ought  not  to  be  spending  his  time  so  idly  as  I  am 
now  doing." 

"  You  have  concluded  to  open  an  office,  then  ?"          ) 

"  I  have.     And  if  you  will  furnish  me  with  the          ', 
necessary  books,  I  will  put  myself  down  to  busi- 
ness at  once." 

"That  is  right,  Henry,"  said  Mr.  Ware,  in  a 
cheerful  tone^  his  face  suddenly  brightening. 
•'  Your  repugnance  to  any  kind  of  business,  1ms 
been  to  me  a  source  of  great  anxiety.  Idle  plea-  } 
•<u re-taking,  let  me  assure  you,  Henry,  is  the 
poorest  possible  way  in  which  to  seek  for  real 


PARENTAL    ANXIETIES.  23 

I 

•;         happiness.    In  that  path  it  never  has,  and  never 

^         will  be  found." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  replied  the  son,  with     •      ? 
nypocritical  gravity.    "  I  am  sure,  that  in  mere 
pleasure-taking,   as   you  term  it,  I  have    never 
realized  any  thing  to  give  true  satisfaction  to  the 
mind." 
"And   you  never  will,  rest  assured,  if  you 

ji          pursue  that  course.     Most  truly  do  I  rejoice  to  £ 

find  a  better  perception  of  things  dawning  upon 

'',  your  mind.  If  you  will  only  enter  upon  your 
profession  with  application,  energy,  and  indus- 

t  try,  you  must  rise  into  eminence,  for  you  have, 
naturally,  a  mind  that  is  active,  and  compre- 
hensive in  its  grasp.  Or,  if  you  should  prefer 
entering  into  business  with  me,  the  way  is  open 
and  a  quicker  road  to  independence,  before  you. 
Here  is  capital  and  every  facility  that  may  be 
needed." 

"I  think  I  should  prefer  law,"  replied  the  son, 
after  musing  for  an  instant  or  two.  "  It  offers  a 
better  field  for  the  exercise  of  talents." 

"So  it  does.  Let  it  be  law,  then.  I  am 
satisfied.  So  soon  as  you  meet,  with  an  office  to 
suit  you,  let  me  know,  and  I  will  have  it  fitted 
up  handsomely.  In  the  mean  time,  furnish  me 
with  a  list  of  such  books  as  you  want,  and  they 
shall  be  ready." 

"  I  will  hand  you  a  list  to-morrow,"  replied 
Henry. 

After  half  an  hour's  further  conference,  which 
ended  in  the  transference  of  a  check  to  the  young 
man  for  two  hundred  dollars,  he  left  the  counting- 
room.  A  few  hours  after,  he  met  his  crony,  Tom, 
or  Thomas  Handy. 

"  Well,  Tom,  I  've  talked  to  the  old  man  about 
that  law  office,"  was  his  salutation. 


24  '  BELL    MARTIN 

"  You  are  quick  on  the  trigger !  How  was  he 
pleased  1" 

•  .  "  Tickled  to  death,  of  course  !  He  thinks  that 
i  '11  be  second  to  none  at  the  bar,  if  I  only  devote 
myself  to  the  profession  with  untiring  zeal  and 
industry." 

"  Indeed !     That 's  flattering !" 

"Ain't  it?  Untiring  zeal  and  industry!  Oh, 
dear !  That  would  be  a  catastrophe,  as  old  What- 
do-ye-call-him  says." 

"  He  thought  you  in  solemn  earnest,  then  ?" 

"  Of  course.  And  gave  me  some  capital  good 
advice,  though,  for  the  soul  of  me,  I  can  't  recol- 
lect a  word  of  it  now." 

"  No  consequence." 

1"  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  do  recollect." 
"  Well !" 
"How  I  came  over  him  too  nicely  for  a  couple 
of  hundred." 

"  Indeed !" 

"  It 's  a  fact.  I  talked,  and  talked,  until  I  got 
him  in  a  capital  good  humor,  and  then  came  down 
upon  him  for  a  check.  He  was  completely  cor- 
nered, and  could  not  say  no.  So  here  's  the 
hundred  I  borrowed  of  you  last  week,  and  much 
obliged  to  you.  The  other  hundred  will  pay  off 
}  a  small  debt  or  two,  and  leave  me  a  little  spend- 

ing money.     My  stock  was  getting  rather  low." 

While  Henry  Ware  was  thus,  in  cold,  unprin- 
cipled heartlessness,  laying  his  plans  for  securing 
the  hand  of  a  pure-minded,  intelligent,  affectionate 
girl,  Bell's  heart  was  trembling  with  love's  first 
and  tenderest  emotions.  The  expression  of  his 
face,  as  he  looked  into  hers,  the  tones  of  his  voice, 
«f  not  the  words  he  had  uttered,  all  told  her  that 
she  had  awakened  an  interest  in  his  feelings;  and 
even  in  many  a  remembered  word,  could  she 


L 


r 


PARENTAL    ANXIETIES.  25 


trace  a  meaning  that  plainly  spoke  of  love.     She 
was,  of  course,  in  a  dreamy,  abstracted  ujood. 

Mr.  Martin,  whose  ardent  affection  for  hia 
children  made  him  observant  of  them,  had  m>- 

$          ticed  on  the  preceding  evening  that  young  Ware 

<          was  over  attentive  to  Bell.     He  was  not  pieused 

to  see  this,  for  he  understood  the  young  man's  ,, 

character  pretty  thoroughly.     He  did  not  sup- 
pose these  attentions  had  any  thing  serious  in 

\  them.  Still,  a  fear  that  such  might  be  the  case, 
was  naturally  awakened.  Once  during  the  even- 
ing he  had  missed  them  for  some  time,  and  was 
just  on  the  eve  of  strolling  out  into  the  garden  to 
see  if  they  were  lingering  there,  when  they  came 
in,  and  separating  from  each  other,  mingled  gene-  ; 
rally  with  the  company.  He  could  not  but  notice, 

\  however,  that  Bell's  eye  wandered  too  frequently 
toward  the  young  man,  with  a  look  of  interest. 
This  troubled  him  for  the  moment — but  he  soon 
dismissed  it  as  an  idle  fear. 

Several  times  during  the  next  day,  as  oppor- 
tunity for  observation  presented  itself,  he  could 
not  but  observe  that  Bell  had  a  look  of  quiet 
abstraction  that  was  unusual  to  her.  This  re- 
called to  his  mind  the  preceding  evening,  and  the 
feeling  of  uneasiness  that  was  then  experienced 
returned. 

"  Have  you  noticed  Bell  particularly  to-day  ?" 
he  inquired  of  her  mother,  as  they  sat  alone  that 

\          evening. 

"  I  have  not.     Why  do  you  ask  V  \ 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  she  is  not  altogether  in  as  \ 

fj          good  spirits  as  usual." 

"  Now  you  mention  it,  I  do  remember  that  she 
has  appeared  rather  dull.  Perhaps  it  is  from  ; 

fatigue.     You  know  she  danced  a  good  deal  last 
night,  and  that  it  was  late  before  any  of  us  got  to          ' 

\          bed." 


'!  26  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  Very  true.  But  still,  I  have  thought  that  there 
|  might  possibly  be  another  reason." 

"  What  other  reason  could  there  be  ]" 
"  Did  n't  you  observe  that  young  Ware  was 
I          over  attentive  to  her  last  night  ?" 

"  Young  Henry  Ware  1"  ^ 

"  Yes." 

"  No,  I  did  not." 

"Well,  he  was  a  good  deal  more  so  than 
:  pleased  me." 

"  Henry  Ware !  Why,  he 's  not  out  of  his  teens 
yet,  is  he !" 

"  Yes,  he  is,  and  thinks  himself  of  no  little 
degree  of  consequence.  I  never  was  much  pre- 
possessed in  his  favor,  however,  though  I  esteem 
his  father  very  highly,  as  a  man  of  sterling  prin- 
ciples. Pity  that  his  son  did  not  more  resemble 
\  him." 

"I  should  not  like  Henry  Ware  to  become 
attached  to  Bell.     He  is  not  the  man  that  pleases 
\          my  fancy." 

"  Nor  mine  either.  Indeed,  I  should  esteem  it 
',  a  calamity  to  our  family  for  one  of  my  daughters 
j  to  have  her  affections  called  out  by  a  young  man 

who   possesses   no    more   claims  to  estimation          \ 
than  he."  : 

"  And  yet  what  are  we  to  do  ?"  said  the  mother, 
j          in  a  serious  tone.     "  We  cannot   deny  him  our 
house,  nor  can  we  refuse  to  let  Bell  attend  parties 
where  we  know  he  will  be  present." 

"  All  too  true,"  replied  Mr.  Martin.  "  Our  fami- 
lies are  on  terms  of  intimacy,  and  his  father  is  one 
of  my  oldest  and  firmest  friends.  Still,  regard  \ 

for  old  Mr.  Ware  ought   not  to  be  a  sufficient  : 

reason  why  I  should  sacrifice  my  daughter  to  his  ; 

'''          worthless  son." 

"  That  is  very  true.  And  yet  no  real  danger 
\  may  exist.  The  young  man  may  never  have  had  \ 


PARENTAL   ANXIETIES.  27 

a  serious  thought  of  marriage — or  a  single  regard 
beyond  that  of  mere  friendship  for  Bell." 

"  That  may  be — but  I  fear  it  is  otherwise. 
They  were  together  a  great  deal  last  evening, 
and  to-day  Bell  is  evidently  changed,  and  iar 
more  pensive  and  thoughtful  than  usual." 

"  You  really  alarm  me  !"  replied  Mrs.  Martin, 
in  a  voice  of  concern. 

"  There  is  cause  of  serious  alarm ;  and  that  is 
why  I  have  spoken  on  the  subject,"  rejoined  her 
husband.  "Now  is  the  point  of  time  in  our 
daughters'  histories,  when  a  false  step  may  wreck 
their  hopes  forever.  How  many,  alas  !  how  many 
sweet  girls  have  we  seen  in  the  last  twenty  years, 
with  hearts  as  pure  and  innocent,  and  hopes  as 
brilliant  as  those  of  our  own  dear  children,  thrown 
down  from  the  pinnacle  of  happiness  to  hopeless 
misery  by  marriage.  You  remember  Anne  Mil-  j 
ford — one  of  the  gentlest  and  loveliest  of  her  sex ; 
how  her  affections  were  won  by  a  man  who  has 
not  only  dragged  her  down,  down,  down,  into 
abject  poverty^  but  who  never  could  and  never 
did  return  a  tithe  of  the  deep  love  she  lavished 
upon  him.  I  met  her  in  the  street  to-day.  Her 
pale,  sad  face,  with  its  dreamy  expression,  made 
my  heart  ache." 

"  But  even  if  young  Ware  should  have  made 
an  impression  on  Bell's  mind — and  even  if  it  were 
to  end  in  marriage,  which  Heaven  forbid !  she 
can  never  be  reduced  to  want,  as  poor  Anne  has 
been." 

"  There  is  no  guaranty  for  that,  in  such  a  man 
as  the  son  of  Mr.  Ware." 

"  Why  not  V 

"  He  will  never  earn  a  dollar,  unless  driven  to 
it  by  necessity ;  and  even  then,  the  little  that  he 
would  make  would  be  of  no  account." 

"  But  both  his  father  and  you  are  rich.* 


28  BELL    MARTIN. 

"Riches,  says  the  good  Book,  take  to  them- 
selves wings  and  fly  away,  Fanny." 

"  True,  but " 

"Your  observation  and  my  own,"  said  Mr. 
Martin,  interrupting  his  wile,  "prove  that  the 
wealth  which  is  accumulated  by  a  man  in  this 
country,  rarely  reaches  his  grand-children.  In 
four  cases  out  of  five,  it  is  all  gone  in  a  few  years 
after  his  death— scattered  by  improvident  child- 
ren, who,  never  having  earned  a  dollar,  have  no 
idea  of  the  value  of  money.  Henry  Ware  is  just 
the  man  to  squander,  with  a  rapidity  four-fold 
greater  than  his  father  ever  accumulated.  I  will 
pass  away  in  a  brief  period,  and  so  will  that  ex- 
cellent old  man  his  father;  and  then,  if  Bell  should 
be  his  wife,  it  will  take  only  a  few  years  to  bring 
them  down  to  want  and  obscurity.  It  makes  my 
heart  sick,  Fanny,  to  think  of  it.  I  would  a  hun- 
dred times  rather  see  her  the  wife  of  Mr.  Lane, 
than  of  that  young  spendthrift.  He,  though  poor 
now,  is  a  man  of  principle,  and  has  habits  of  atten- 
tion to  business.  He  must  rise  in  the  world,  while 
the  other  will  as  certainly  sink.  In  this  country, 
all  men,  sooner  or  later,  find  their  level.  True 
merit,  united  with  persevering  industry,  must  rise 
into  positions  of  influence  and  wealth,  while  idle- 
ness and  extravagance  must  as  inevitably  sink 
into  obscurity  and  dependence. 

"  Of  course,  Bell  could  not  fancy  him." 

"No,  nor  he  Bell,  I  suppose.     They  do  not  now 

stand  upon  the  same  level ;  and  where  there  is  not 

true  equality,  there  cannot  be  a  true  reciprocal 

affection.     But  do  you  know  that  he  has  taken  a 

*  fancy  to  our  Mary  1" 

"  Yes,  I  learned  it  for  the  first  time  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  And  it  delighted  you,  of  course  1" 

"It  did.    Mary  is  one  of  the  best  of  girls,  and 

I 


OPENING   AN   OFFICE  29 

I  have  always  felt  strongly  attached  to  her.  To 
know  that  she  is  going  to  do  so  well,  gives  me  a 
sincere  pleasure — though  I  shall  be  sorry  indeed 
to  Jose  her." 

"  Mr.  Lane  mentioned  it  to  me  to-day,  and  I 
said,  '  take  her  with  all  my  heart !  I  believe  you 
are  worthy  of  each  other.'  How  glad  I  shall  feel 
if  I  can  only  say  the  same  when  the  hands  of  my 
daughters  are  asked.  But  young  ladies,  occupy- 
ing their  position  in  society,  are  surrounded  with 
dangers  on  every  hand,  and  it  is  little  less  than  a 
miracle  if  they  escape.  Idle  fortune-hunters  are 
ever  on  the  alert  with  insidious  arts  to  ensnare 
their  guileless  affections,  and  are,  alas  !  too  often 
successful." 

"  May  such  a  one  never  be  successful  in  win- 
ning the  love  of  either  of  my  children!" 

"  Amen !"  was  the  heartfelt  response  of  Mr. 
Martin. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OPENING    AN    OFFICE. 

[T  was  about  a  week  after  the  conversations', 
recorded  in  the  last  chapter,  occurred,  that  a 
party  was  given  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ware.  The 
Martins  were  present.  The  father  of  Bell  had  his 
eye  upon  her  with  a  careful  interest.  His  fears 
were  soon  awakened  anew,  for  Henry  got  by  her 
side  early  in  the  evening,  and  held  his  place  there 
with  a  steadiness  that  Mr.  Martin  felt  augured  no 
good.  As  ibr  Bell,  she  was  in  the  finest  spirits 
imaginable. 

3* 


BELL   MARTIN. 


"  How  does  Henry  come  on  now  ?"  asked  Mr 
Martin  of  Mr.  Ware,  as  the  two  sat  conversing 
familiarly. 

"  I  am  glad  to  say  that  there  has  been,  what  I 
esteem,  a  great  change  in  him  of  late,"  replied  the 
father,  with  a  pleased  manner. 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  I  am  really  gratified  to  hear  it." 

"  You  are  aware,  that  he  has,  all  along,  evinced 
no  inclination  to  settle  himself  down  to  any  bu-          <; 
siness  V 

"  Yes,  I  have  observed  as  much." 

"I  believe  he  has  seen  his  folly,  for  he  has  •• 
taken  an  office  with  a  determination  to  do  some-  J 
thing." 

"He  studied  law,  I  believe?" 

"Yes — and  passed  an  excellent  examination, 
more  than  a  year  ago." 

"  Truly,  what  you  say  is  gratifying.    Like  too         \ 
many  of  the  sons  of  our  wealthy  men,  Henry,  I 
suppose,  has  not  been  able  to  see  the  necessity 
of  applying  himself  to  any  business." 

"  That  has  been  his  error." 

"  And  a  very  fatal  one  it  is,  Mr.  Ware.    Until         \ 
our  young  men  feel  that  there  is  just  the  same 
necessity  for  them  to  enter  into  and  attend  to         i 
business  with  persevering  industry,  as  there  was 
for  their  fathers,  there  will  be  no  guaranty  for         \ 
their  retaining  the  positions  to  which  they  have 
been  elevated.    Young  men  of  humble  origin  and 
no  pecuniary  resources,  will  gradually  rise  up  and 
take  the  places  which  they  have  proved  unworthy 
to  fill." 

''  So  I  have  told  Henry  many  and  many  a  time. 
But,  until  now,  he  has  never  felt  the  force  of  what 
I  said." 

"  You  must  feel,  greatly  encouraged  for  him  ?" 

"  No  one  can  tell  how  much.  He  is  my  only 
son— to  see  him  running  a  round  of  idleness,  and. 


1 


OPENING  AN   OFFICE.  31 

I  might  say,  dissipation,  has  pained  me  more  than 
I  can  tell.  But  he  has  suddenly  paused,  and  re- 
flected. I  know  not  why — I  do  not  ask  why. 
The  fact  is  all  that  concerns  me." 

"You  have  confidence  in  the  permanency  of 
his  good  resolutions  7" 

"  I  do  not  permit  myself  to  doubt,  Mr.  Martin. 
J  look  only  to  the  happy  results  that  must  follow 
tfie  change,  and  look  with  feelings  of  pride  as  well 
as  pleasure.  He  is  a  young  man  of  fine  mind,  and 
must  soon  begin  to  take  a  place  in  his  profession 
that  will  flatter  his  pride,  and  spur  him  onward  to 
higher  attainments.  This  is  my  calculation — and 
I  believe  I  am  right." 

"  Most  earnestly  do  I  hope  that  this  may  be  the 
result." 

How  far  the  anticipations  of  the  father  were  in 
the  way  of  being  realized,  the  reader  will  be  able 
to  judge  by  the  following  conversation,  which 
took  place  at  Harry's  new  office,  with  his  par- 
ticular friend  and  associate,  Tom  Handy.  One 
of  the  appendages  to  this  office  was  an  upper 
room,  neatly  furnished.  In  this  the  two  young 
men  were  seated,  their  feet  upon  a  table,  on 
which  were  glasses  and  wine  in  coolers,  filling 
the  room  with  clouds  of  smoke  from  two  real 
Havanas. 

"  This  opening  an  office  is  not  such  a  bad  idea, 
after  all,  is  it,  Tom'!"  said  young  Ware,  with  a 
knowing  leer,  as  he  slowly  drew  his  segar  from 
his  mouth,  and  then  watched  the  wreaths  of 
smoke,  that  he  leisurely  puffed  out,  curling  up 
toward  the  ceiling  and  gradually  dissolving  in 

"  No,  indeed — it 's  a  capital  one,"  replied  his 
crony,  lazily  taking  his  segar  from  his  teeth,  and 
suffering  the  smoke,  in  turn,  to  float  in  thick 
clouds  about  his  head.  "  No  doubt  your  old  man 


32  BELL   MARTIN. 

thinks  you  now  deeply  immersed  in  the  mysteries 
of  legal"  reports  or  some  such  interesting  employ- 
ment. Or,  perhaps  he  is  at  this  very  time  ima- 
gining that  you  are  engaged  with  a  client,  who, 
conscious  of  your  superior  legal  knowledge,  has 
chosen  you  to  represent  him  in  some  cause  of 
vast  importance — " 

"And  delighting  himself,  in  imagination,  with 
the  sensation  my  maiden  speech  will  produce !" 

"  Suppose  a  case  were  really  offered  you  1" 

"  I  should  decline  it,  of  course.  I  'm  not  going 
to  make  a  fool  of  myself  in  that  court-room,  I 
know.  What  do  I  know  of  law  1" 

"  Not  much,  I  should  imagine." 

"  About  as  much  as  a  dog  does  of  Latin." 

"And  that  is  as  much  as  you  ever  intend  to 
know  ?" 

"  Precisely.  I  have  but  one  case  on  hand,  and 
that 's  the  only  one  I  ever  intend  to  have.  As  far 
as  that  is  concerned,  I  believe  I  am  fully  ready  to 
maintain  my  position  against  any  opponent  who 
may  present  himself." 

"  What  case  is  that,  pray?" 

"  My  case  in  the  court  of  love." 

"  True.    I  had  forgotten." 

"It  required  an  office,  you  know,  to  give  me          > 
importance,  and  thus  ensure  success.     When  that 
suit  is  gained,  good-bye  to  law,  office  and  library.          \ 
They  may  float  in  the  Schuylkill  for  aught  I  care." 

"  Every  thing  went  off  to  a  charm  last  night,  I          { 
believe  ?" 

"  O  yes,  so  far  as  Bell  was  concerned.    But  I          \ 
can  't  say  that  I  liked  the  way  old  Martin  and  his  ,' 

wife  eyed  me,  every  now  and  then.  They  're  a 
little  suspicious,  I  believe,  of  my  design." 

"  You  '11  have  to  fight  shy  for  awhile." 

"  Yes,  I  will ;  at  least  until  I  can  get  into  the  old          • 
folks  good  graces." 


OPENING  AN   OFFICE.  33 

"  How  will  you  manage  that  1" 

"  I  've  been  scheming  over  a  plan  all  the  mor- 
ning." 

"  Well,  have  you  hit  upon  anything  1" 

"  Yes — and  I  think  it  will  do." 

"  What  is  it  1" 

"  You  know  my  way  to  this  office,  from  home, 
is  right  by  old  Martin's  counting-room  1" 

"  I  'm  going  to  get  a  green  bag  made,  of  pretty 
liberal  capacity,  and  carry  it  backward  and  for- 
ward in  my  hand,  once  or  twice  a  day,  with  an 
air  of  great  business  importance." 

"  You  must  manage,  occasionly,  to  let  the  end 
of  a  document,  plentifully  supplied  with  red  tape 
and  big  seals,  protrude  from  it,  as  if  you  had  thrust 
in  your  papers  hurriedly." 

"  That 's  a  capital  suggestion,  Tom,  and  I  shall 
be  sure  to  adopt  it.  Do  n't  you  think  it  will  have 
a  good  effect  ?" 

"  It  can  do  no  harm,  at  least." 

"So  I  think— and  may  do  good.  As  for  Bell, 
she  's  safe.  I  could  see  that  she  was  dull,  except 
when  with  me,  last  night,  and  then  she  was  as 
lively  as  a  cricket." 

"  I  noticed  that,  too — and  I  noticed  more." 

"  What  was  that  ?" 

"  That  she  was  a  sweet,  interesting  girl — and 
\  decidedly  the  handsomest  one  in  the  room." 

"  Do  you  think  so  7" 

"  I  do  really.  It  would  be  no  sin  for  you  to  love 
her  in  downright  earnest,  Harry." 

"  So  I  thought  last  night.  But  I  can 't  go  that. 
I  should  soon  get  sick  of  it,  and  it  would  only  spoil 
her,  into  the  bargain." 

"  Fanny  looked  a  very  picture  of  loveliness,  also  " 

"  I  did  n't  take  much  notice  of  her." 

"I  did  then." 


34  BELL   MARTIN. 

"Suppose  you  spruce  up  to  her,  Tom?  She 
will  have  the  rino,  of  course,  equal  to  Bell." 

"  So  I  thought.  But  I  can't  marry  yet,  unless 
compelled  to  do  so,  which  I  'm  afraid  will  be  the 
case,  as  my  old  man  seems  inclined  to  cut  off,  in- 
stead of  increasing,  supplies." 

"Indeed!    That's  bad.    How  has  it  happened  1" 

"He  says  that  he  does  not  feel  willing  to  support 
me  in  what  he  calls,  idleness  any  longer— and  that 

I  will  not  go  into  his  store  and  go  to  work,  he 
wilHurn  me  loose  upon  the  world,  to  shift  for  my- 

"The  old  rascal!  But  pardon  me,  Tom!  I 
could  not  but  feel  indignant  at  such  downright 
unnatural  conduct." 

"  No  offence,  Harry.  Though  I  must  say,  you 
indulged  in  great  plainness  of  speech." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  Heaven  alone  knows,  for  I  do  n't." 
f  "  You  do  not  intend  going  into  the  store,  of 

course?" 

"Hardly." 

"  You  'd  better  speak  quick  for  Fanny,  before 
somebody  else  steps  in.  I  should  like  to  have  you 
for  a  brother-in-law,  above  all  thing's." 

"  Thank  you,  Harry !  But  I  must  take  a  little 
time  to  consider  the  matter.  The  truth  is,  I  do  n't 
want  a  wife  if  I  can  keep  free.  But,  if  I  must  take 
one,  I  see  no  particular  objection  to  Fan." 

Henry  Ware  was  in  earnest  in  reference  to  the 
green  bag,  which  he  procured  and  regularly  carried 
to  and  fro,  between  his  office  and  home,  at  leasi 
once  every  day.  Two  or  three  books  were  of 
course  thrown  into  it— and,  acting  upon  his  friend 
lorns  suggestion,  he  now  and  then  managed  to 
let  the  end  of  a  thick  roll  of  paper,  tied  with  red 
tape,  peep  carelessly  out.  The  effect  of  this  upon 
the  mind  of  Mr.  Martin  he  had  truly  calculated. 


J 


OPENING   AN  OFFICE.  35 

The  old  gentleman,  who  now  had  good  reason  for 
observing  him,  did  not  fail  to  notice  the  regularity 
with  which  Henry  went  by  on  his  way  to  his  office, 
and  particularly  was  his  eye  caught  by  the  green, 
well-filled  bag.  All  this  caused  him  to  regard  the 
young  man  less  unfavorably. 

"  Who  came  in  just  now  7"  he  asked  of  his  wife 
one  evening  about  two  weeks  after  Harry  had  be- 
gun to  carry  his  green  bag.  "  Some  one  rung  the 
bell." 

"  It 's  Henry  Ware  and  his  sisters,  I  believe." 

"  Henry  Ware  7" 

"  Yes." 

"  He  was  here  with  his  sisters  one  evening  last 
week,  was  he  not  7" 

"  Yes." 

"  Next  week,  I  suppose,  he  will  come  alone." 

"  Do  you  really  think  he  is  seriously  inclined 
toward  Bell  7"  the  mother  asked. 

"  I  'm  afraid  so,  Fanny  ;  and  what  is  more,  I  'm 
afraid  that  Bell  is  becoming  seriously  inclined  to- 
ward him.  Several  times  I  have  mentioned  his 
name  on  purpose  to  see  its  effect  upon  her,  and 
the  color  has  instantly  risen  to  her  cheek." 

"I  have  noticed  the  same  thing  myself,"  replied 
the  mofher  with  much  concern  in  her  voice. 
"  What  is  to  be  done  if  she  should  really  love  him, 
and  he  should  make  an  offer  for  her  hand  7" 

"  Wre  shall,  in  that  case,  have  to  let  them  marry, 
I  suppose,  and  take  their  chance,"  remarked  the 
father  in  rather  a  gloomy  tone. 

"  Surely  not !  It  would  be  cruel  in  us  to  let  such 
a  sacrifice  take  place." 

"But  we  could  not  help  it,  Fanny.  When  a 
young  thing  like  Bell  once  gets  fairly  in  love  no 
reason  can  reach  her.  All  opposition  is  vain,  and 
must  be  finally  overcome.  My  observation  con- 
vinces me,  that  the  best  way  is  to  let  matters  take 


36  BELL   MARTIN. 

their  course,  and  then  try  and  make  the  best  of 
every  thing." 

"  I  cannot,  indeed  I  cannot  think  of  consenting 
to  such  a  marriage,  which  must  inevitably  end  in 
heart  breaking  misery  to  our  child,"  said  the  mo- 
ther, the  tears  starting  to  her  eyes. 

"  It  will  not  be  so  bad  as  that,  I  begin  to  hope," 
replied  Mr.  Martin,  encouragingly. — "  You  know 
what  Mr.  Ware  told  me  about  the  change  that  had 
taken  place  in  his  son  1" 

"  But  I  have  no  confidence  in  it." 

"  Nor  had  I,  at  first.  But  I  really  now  think 
that  the  young  man  may  be  in  earnest.  He  passes 
my  store  regularly  every  day  to  his  office,  and  is 
no  doubt  already  getting  into  buisness,  for,  of  late, 
he  has  his  bag  of  books  and  papers  with  him  every 
morning  and  afternoon,  and  begins  to  have  quite 
a  thoughtful  air.  He  has  mind  enough,  and  if  he 
only  turn  himself  industriously  to  the  profession 
he  has  chosen,  he  must  rise,  inevitably,  to  distinc- 
tion. Perhaps  the  chord  of  ambition  may  have 
already  been  touched.  If  so,  he  is  safe." 

The  mother  did  not  fall  so  readily  into  this  idea. 
Still,  it  relieved  her  mind  a  good  deal ;  and  both, 
from  that  time,  began  to  look  upon  the  young 
man  with  more  favorable  eyes.  . 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   GAMING   ADVENTURE. 

ONE  day,  about  three  months  subsequent  to  the          , 
time  in  which  occurred  the  incidents  just  related, 
Henry  Ware  called  upon  Mr.  Martin  at  his  count-         \ 


A  GAMING   ADVENTURE.  37 

ing-room.    After  passing  a  few  common-place  re- 
marks, the  young  man  said,  with  a  serious  air — 

"  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  private  conversa- 
tion with  you,  Mr.  Martin." 

"  Certainly,  Henry,"  replied  Mr.  Martin,  though 
not  in  a  very  encouraging  tone.     "  We  shall  be          i 
uninterrupted  here,  as  all  my  clerks  are  engaged 
at  present  in  the  store  and  will  be  so  for  some 
time." 

-  "  You  know,  sir,"  began  the  young  man  after 

a  few  moments'  hesitation,  "that  I  have  visited 
your  daughter,  Bell,  pretty  often  of  late." 

"  I  have  observed  as  much,"  was  the  cold  re-         > 
sponse. 

"  In  doing  so,"  resumed  Ware, "  I  have  been  in-         •, 
fluenced  by  an  admiration  and  a  regard  for  her         ^ 
that  have  fast  ripened  into  affection.     In  a  word, 
sir,  my  errand  here  to-day  is  to  ask  of  you  her 
hand  in  marriage." 

"  You  ask  of  me,  Henry,  that  which  I  cannot 
lightly  give,"  replied  Mr.  Martin,  with  a  still  graver  \ 
look  and  tone.  "  A  father  who  loves  his  children  J 
as  I  love  mine,  must  be  fully  satisfied  that  they  ? 
will  be  happy,  ere  he  can  consent  to  their  mar-  \ 
riage." 

"  I  should  have  much  mistaken  the  character  of 
Mr.  Martin,  if  he  were  to  act  otherwise,"  the  young 
man  said,  with  a  perfectly  unembarrassed  manner. 
"  No  father  ought  to  give  his  consent  to  the  mar- 
riage of  his  child,  without  being  fully  satisfied  as  to 
the  character  of  the  man  who  proposes  for  her 
hand.  I  do  not,  therefore,  expect  you  to  accept  ; 
of  my  proposal  at  once.  But  your  manner  leads 
me  to  infer,  that  in  your  mind,  there  are  objections 
to  me.  Am  I  right  V 

Ware  was  perfectly  cool  and  self-possessed. 

"  You  are  right  in  your  inference,"   was  Mr.          t 
Martin's  answer.    "You  know,  Homy,  that,  like 
4 


So  BELL   MARTIN. 

your  father,  I  am  a  man  of  buisness  views  and 
habits.  One  who  has  been,  mainly,  the  architect 
of  his  own  fortune ;  and  one  who  values  in  others 
the  same  qualities  and  habits  that  have  made  him, 
successful  in  life.  These,  he  has  not  perceived  in 
you — or,  at  least  only,  in  very  feeble  activity. 
The  man  who,  with  my  consent,  marries  either 
Fanny  or  Bell,  must  be  a  man  of  energy,  industry, 
and  sound  views  and  principles.  These  will  bear 
him  up  under  all  circumstances.  These  will  pre- 
serve him  amid  temptations.  These  will  be  a 
guaranty  for  my  daughters'  happiness." 

"  I  fully  appreciate  what  you  say,  Mr.  Martin," 
returned  Ware.  "  Your  own  success  in  life,  and 
that  of  my  father,  are  strong  illustrations  of  the 
truth  of  those  practical  principles  which  you  have 
adopted.  Principles  which,  of  late,  have  been  pre- 
sented to  my  mind  as  altogether  worthy  of  adop- 
tion. I  know  that  I  have  been  a  thoughtless  young 
man,  fond  of  company  and  pleasure.  I  know  that 
there  was  a  time  when  I  laughed  at  sober  industry, 
and  those  manly  exertions  which  elevate  individu- 
als into  positions  of  honor  and  usefulness,  as 
something  for  the  vulgar.  But  I  have  seen  the 
folly  and  weakness  of  such  views,  and  have  en- 
tered, seriously,  upon  the  business  of  life,  with  a 
steady,  and  I  hope,  vigorous  determination  to  suc- 
ceed. You  are  aware,  sir,  I  presume,  that  I  open- 
ed an  office  for  the  practice  of  law  some  months 
ago.  Since  that  time,  I  have  devoted  myself  with 
diligence  to  the  profession  I  have  chosen." 

"  It  gives  me  great  pleasure,  Henry,  to  hear  you 
express  views  that  are  so  sound,  and  far  more 
pleasure  to  hear  you  declare  that  you  have  adop- 
ted them  as  rules  of  life,"  replied  Mr.  Martin  in  a 
more  encouraging  tone.  "  Still,  the  change  in 
your  course  of  life  is  of  such  recent  occurrence, 
that  you  cannot  blame  me  for  fearing  that  difficul 


A  GAMING  ADVENTURE.  33 

tics,  unforseen  by  yourself  in  the  new  path,  you 
have  so  properly  chosen,  may  prevent  you  perse- 
vering in  it." 

"  Is  there  any  other  objection  to  me  1"  Henry 
Ware  asked,  in  a  serious  tone. 

"  None  other,  Henry,"  was  Mr.  Martin's 
prompt  reply.  "  You  are  the  son  of  one  of  my 
oldest  and  most  esteemed  friends.  Your  father 
and  myself  grew  up  together  as  boys,  and  en- 
tered upon  business  at  the  same  time.  Thus 
far,  we  have  been  fast  friends,  and,  I  trust,  will  re- 
main so  through  life.  No  objection  can,  therefore, 
possibly  exist  in  reference  to  this  matter  but  what 
pertains  to  yourself,  personally.  If  I  can  be  satis- 
fied that  you  will  make  Bell  happy — that  you  will 
cherish  her  and  care  for  her  as  I  have  cherished 
and  cared  for  her,  I  will  say,  take  her  with  my 
whole  heart." 

"  How  am  I  to  satisfy  you  of  this,  Mr.  Martin  ?" 

"  I  can  only  be  satisfied  by  such  an  assurance 
of  the  permanency  of  your  present  course  of  life, 
as  will  leave  my  mind  free  from  all  doubt  upon 
the  subject.  In  the  mean  time,  I  will  not  restrict 
you  in  your  visits  to  Bell.  A  few  weeks'  observa- 
tion and  deliberation  I  shall  take  before  I  make 
up  my  mind.  When  that  is  done,  my  decision 
will  be  final.  And  I  can  only  say,  that  it  will  be 
to  me  a  source  of  real  pleasure  if  I  can  make  it  in 
your  favor." 

"  I  will  cheerfully  await  your  decision,  Mr,  Mar- 
tin," young  Ware  said.  "And  I  thank  you  for 
the  frankness  with  which  you  have  dealt  with  me. 
If  you  do  not  find  me  worthy  to  claim  the  hand 
of  your  daughter,  reject  my  suit.  But  do  not 
judge  of  me  by  the  past.  Let  me  be  estimated 
by  what  I  am,  not  by  what  I  was." 

"  My  mind  will  no  doubt  incline  in  your  favor," 
replied  Mr.  Martin.  "And  I  more  than  nuspect 


BELL   MARTIN. 


that,  at  home,  I  shall  find  many  reasons  for  en- 
couraging your  suit.  Be  that  as  it  may,  however, 
I  shall  endeavour  to  decide  the  matter  soon,  and 
in  doing  so,  be  governed  by  a  regard  for  the  happi- 
ness of  my  child." 

The  young  man,  after  a  few  further  words, 
arose,  and  went  away.  For  nearly  an  hour  after, 
old  Mr.  Martin  remained  seated,  in  deep  thought. 

In  a  few  minutes  from  the  time  Ware  left  the 
store  of  Mr.  Martin,  he  entered  his  own  office, 
and  ascended  to  the  upper  room,  before  men- 
tioned. There  he  found,  as  he  had  expected,  his 
very  particular  friend,  Thomas  Handy,  who  was 
lounging  in  an  easy  chair,  and  filling  the  room 
with  tobacco  smoke. 

"  Halloo  !  Back  a'ready !"  was  that  individual's 
salutation  as  Ware  entered,  rising  up  with  a  quick 
movement,  and  a  look  of  interest  as  he  spoke. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  a  prompt  man,  you  know." 

"  Did  you  get  round  the  old  fellow  1" 

"  O,  yes." 

"  Indeed  !    Has  he  consented  7" 

"No — of  course  not.  I  didn't  expect  that. 
But  I  Ve  got  him  safely  enough,  or  I  'm  very  much 
mistaken/' 

"  How  did  he  take  your  proposition  ?" 

"  Coldly  enough  at  first.  But  I  saw  his  weak 
side,  and  so  dropped  in  a  little  ingenious  flattery. 
Then  I  made  him  believe  that  I  was  going  to  be 
one  of  the  most  industrious,  exemplary  young 
men  in  the  whole  city — a  very  pattern  of  plodding, 
dollar  and  cent  dullness.  That  green  bag,  with 
the  documents  peeping  out  of  it  occasionally,  has 
touched  the  old  codgeVs  heart,  I  can  see  plainly 
enough." 

"  Did  you  ask  for  Bell,  outright  ?" 

"  O,  yes.  I  thought  it  best  to  come  to  the  point 
at  once." 


A   GAMING   ADVENTURE.  41 

"  What  did  he  say  V 

"  He  put  me  off  for  a  month  or  so,  to  give  him 
time  to  consider." 

':  A  month  or  so  !" 

''Yes,   confound  it!    I  shall   have    to  walk  a 
;  chalk  line  until  my  knees  grow  stiff.    If  in  that 

time  any  thing  should  go  wrong,  or  I  should,  un- 
fortunately, be  betrayed  into  any  little  indiscretion 
i  while  under  the  influence  of  a  bottle  of  wine  too 

much,  the  whole  jig  will  be  up." 
"  You  will  have  to  be  prudent,  Harry,"  replied 
his  friend,  gravely. 

"Indeed,  I  will.     I've  taken   almost  as   much 
J!  trouble  now  as  the  jade  is  worth,  and  could  hardly 

be  tempted  to  act  such  a  farce  over  again  were 
the  present  enterprise  to  prove  a  failure.  To  be 
compelled  to  stick  up  my  name  as  a  miserable 
lawyer,  and  go,  regularly,  day  after  day,  to  my 
office ;  and  what  is  worse,  lug  a  green  bag  about 
the  street,  with  a  mock  business  air,  is  going  it 
a  little  too  strong  for  a  gentleman." 

"  It  is  rather  hard,  I  confess,  but  two  months 
will  soon  slip  round." 

"  Yes.  And  during  the  time  I  must  endeavor 
to  enjoy  myself  as  much  as  possible,  and  thus  rob 
it  of  a  portion  of  irksomeness." 

"  We  hav  n't  been  to  P 's  together  for  some 

time,"  remarked  Handy,  after  a  pause  in  the  con- 
versation. 

"  Xo.  It 's  too  expensive  sometimes — especially 
as  the  money  do  n't  come  quite  as  easy  as  former- 
ly," was  the  reply  of  Ware. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Harry,  that  you  and  I  ought  to 
have  wit  and  skill  enough  to  prevent  that." 

"I've  often  thought  as  much  myself.  But 
they  're  keen  hands  at  turning  a  card  there." 

"  So  are  all  these  professional  men.     The  only 
thing  is  for  us  to  Ire  just  as  keen  as  they  are,  and  I 
4* 


42  BELL   MARTIN. 

believe  we  can  be.  The  fact  is,  I  find  that  I  am 
gaining  skill  and  nerve  every  day.  Last  night  I 

came  away  from  T 's  worth  a  hundred  dollais 

more  than  I  was  when  I  went  to  the  rooms." 

"  You  did  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  did.  But  I  had  to  work  for  it,  and  no 
mistake." 

"  Your  hand  is  improving." 

"  Very  much.    And  so  is  yours." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  it  is."    Then,  after  a  pause— 

"  You  propose  going  to  P 's  to-night  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  much  can  you  raise,  Tom  ?" 

"About  two  hundred  dollars." 

"  That 's  more  than  I  can,  by  one  hundred  and 
ninety." 

"  So  low  as  that  1"  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

•'  It 's  a  fact.  My  old  man,  you  know,  is  n't  too 
liberal  in  his  supplies." 

"  Nor  mine  either.  But  I  thought  this  office,  the 
green  bag,  and  all  that,  had  mollified  him  con- 
siderably." 

"  So  it  has.  Still,  he  makes  me  ask  him,  every 
time  I  want  a  dollar,  and  that  is  not  so  very 
pleasant,  you  know." 

"  Of  course  not,  but  no  matter — my  purse  is 
yours.  We  can  take  a  hundred  dollars  apiece, 
and  go  to  P 's  to  night." 

"  And  come  away  without  a  hundred  cents  in 
our  pockets,  I  suppose." 

"  That  do  n't  follow,  by  any  means,  Harry. 
Rather  say  we  will  come  away  with  a  cool  thou- 
sand a-piece." 

"  Very  pleasant  to  contemplate,  but  difficult  to 
realize,"  was  Ware's  reply. 

"Though  difficult,  it  is  yet  possible  to  realize 
all  that,  and  more.  For  my  part,  my  mind  is  fully 
made  up  to  do  something  for  myself  in  this  way, 


A   GAMING    ADVENTURE.  43 

If  I  do  n't,  I  shall,  like  you,  be  driven  to  marry 
some  silly  girl,  or  else  be  forced  into  some  kind 
of  business,  than  stoop  to  which,  I  would  almost ' 
as  lief  drown  myself." 

"  And  you  seriously  think  that  something  may 
De  done  in  this  line  ?" 

"  Certainly  1  do.  Did  n't  I  win  a  hundred  dol- 
lars last  night  ]" 

"  So  you  have  said.  But  might  not  that  have 
been  the  result  of  accident  1" 

"  It  might  have  been — but  it  was  not.  I  had  as 
keen  a  fellow  to  deal  with  as  is  to  be  found  in  a  hun- 
dred. He  did  his  best,  but  I  was  wide  awake  all 
the  time.  Practice  makes  perfect,  you  know,  and 
I  have  been  practising  for  the  last  three  or  four 
months,  pretty  steadily." 

"  I  do  n't  know  but  that  it  would  be  well  for  me 
to  improve  myself  in  this  way,  too.  There  's  no 
telling  what  may  turn  up,  after  I  secure  Bell." 

"  That  is  true  enough,  Harry." 

"  Of  course,  I  do  n't  intend  keeping  this  shop 
open  a  day.  For  three  or  four  months  I  shall 
manage  to  have  forty  good  excuses  for  not  attend- 
ing to  business.  At  first,  you  know,  we  will  have 
to  travel  for  a  few  weeks;  then  I  shall  want 
to  spend  some  time  in  New  York,  and  so  on 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  But  the  mark  will 
have  to  be  toed  at  last.  I  shall  have  to  take  a  de- 
liberate stand,  and  make  a  plain  avowal  of  my  de- 
termination not  tc  have  a  stone  laid  upon  my  badk, 
and  be  crushed  down  and  kept  down,  to  the  level 
of  a  mere  workie.  When  that  comes — and  come 
it  must,  Tom — there  is  no  telling  what  two  hard- 
headed  old  fellows,  like  Bell's  father  and  mine,  may 
attempt.  But  they'll  find  their  match,  or  I'm 
mistaken.  They  '11  discover  that  I  'm  a  boy  that 
is  hard  to  beat.  The  first  movement  will,  no 
doubt,  be  to  cut  off  supplies.  Of  course,  I  must 


44  BELL   MARTIU, 

prepare  for  such  an  event — I  must,  if  possible  hit 
upon  some  expedient  for  keeping  up  supplies." 

"  Of  course  you  must.  And  that  which  1  propose, 
.is  the  only  honorable  expedient.  And,  besides,  you 
can  manage  it  with  the  utmost  secrecy.  You  can 

go  night  after  night  to  T 's,  or  M 's,  or 

P 's.  and  old  Martin  will  be  none  the  wiser. 

No  secrets  leak  out  of  those  places." 

"  We  will  go  to-night,  as  you  propose,  Tom," 
was  Ware's  prompt  reply. 

That  night,  at  about  nine  o'  clock,  the  young 
men  met  according  to  arrangement,  and  proceed- 
ed together  to  a  house  in  the  upper  part  of  Ches- 
nut  street,  which,  in  external  appearance,  bore  all 
the  indications  of  a  private  dwelling.  They  rung 
the  bell,  and  were  regularly  admitted  by  a  servant. 
First,  they  entered,  with  an  air  of  freedom  and  self- 
possession,  the  parlors  below,  which  were  brilliant- 
ly lighted,  exhibiting  a  rich  display  of  furniture, 
costly  mirrors  and  pictures,  with  frames  of  the 
richest  manufacture.  Here  were  to  be  found  all 
the  newspapers,  and  the  choicest  periodicals  of 
the  day.  A  few  individuals  were  to  be  seen,  read- 
ing, or  lounging  upon  the  sofas. 

The  two  young  men  lingered  here  but  a  few 
moments,  and  then  ascended  to  a  room  ranging 
along  the  back-buildings  of  the  house,  which  waa 
fitted  up  as  a  bar  with  great  elegance.  Here  was 
exhibited  in  tempting  array  every  thing  that  could 
please  the  taste  of  the  epicure,  or  delight  the 
thirsty  seekers  for  wines  or  mixed  liquors ;  wmle 
smiling  attendants  stood  ready  to  answer  with 
promptness  any  demand.  All  this  was  free — pro- 
vided  by  the  generous  munificence  (!)  of  the  rich 
proprietors  of  the  establishment. 

"  We  must  take  a  strong  punch  to  make  our 
nerves  steady,"  remarked  Handy  to  Ware,  as  the 
two  entered  the  bar-room  door. 


A   GAMING    ADVENTURE.  15 

"  Of  course,"  was  the  brief  answer. 

A  stiff  glass  of  the  compound  named  by  Handy 
was  taken  in  silence  by  the  young  men,  and  then 
they  turned  away,  and  ascending  two  or  three 
steps,  entered  the  large  room  that  fronted  the 
street,  which  was  brilliantly  illuminated.  From 
without,  the  windows,  although  presenting  the 
appearance  of  being  lightly  draperied,  gave  no 
sign  of  the  busy  life  within.  The  passer-by,  if  he 
lifted,  perchance,  his  gaze  to  the  building,  con- 
cluded, if  he  thought  of  the  matter  at  all,  that  few, 
if  any,  were  its  inmates — for  all  was  dark  and  si- 
lent as  desolation. 

In  this  room  were  arranged  many  small  tables, 
at  several  of  which  persons  were  engaged  at  play. 
Two  or  three  were  walking  backward  and  for- 
ward, evidently  absorbed  in  thought ;  and  one 
was  seated  alone,  his  head  drooping  upon  his 
'breast,  and  but  a  portion  of  his  features  visible. 
For  a  moment  or  two  Ware  let  his  eye  rest  upon 
the  last  mentioned  individual,  and  observed  that 
his  lips  were  separated,  and  that  his  teeth  were 
closely  shut,  and  in  a  slight  oblique  position,  as  if 
he  were  just  about  grinding  them  together.  His 
hand,  too,  was  clenched,  and  had  a  perceptible 
nervous  twitching. 

"  That  poor  devil  has  been  fleeced,  I  suppose," 
whispered  Handy,  with  a  contemptuous  smile,  and 
toss  of  the  head. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so — and  now  sits  here  making 
a  fool  of  himself,"  was  Ware's  heartless  reply. 
"  But  come,"  he  added,  "  let 's  go  to  the  upper 
room  in  the  rear  building.  This  is  too  nigh  tne 
street.  I  can  't  bear  the  noise  of  the  carriages— 
nor  to  hear  the  sound  of  voices  on  the  pavement 
It  does  'nt  seem  private  enough." 

"  My  own  feelings,"  rejoined  Handy. 

The  two  young  men  accordingly  withdrew,  and 


46  BELL   MARTIfc, 

ascended  to  the  room  which  Ware  had  indicated. 
It  was  much  longer  than  the  one  they  had  just  left, 
running  the  whole  length  of  an  extensive  back 
building.  The  floor  was  covered  with  rich  Brus- 
sels carpeting,  the  windows  were  hung  with  costly 
curtains,  and  the  walls  glittered  with  mirrors  that 
reflected  light  from  three  splendid  chandeliers. 
Here,  as  below,  were  ranges  of  tables,  some 
occupied  by  individuals  with  cards,  and  others  va- 
cant. As  Ware  and  Handy  came  in,  they  were 
approached  by  a  man  of  the  blandest  manners, 
and  the  most  polished  address.  He  supposed  the 
young  gentlemen  desired  to  amuse  themselves— 
there  were  tables  with  cards,  and  other  means  of 
passing  an  agreeable  hour.  The  young  gentle- 
men thanked  him  with  a  manner  as  polite  and 
courteous  as  his  own;  and  acting  upon  his  hint 
took  possession  of  a  table. 

"Rather  dull  work  for  two,"  this  very  consider- 
ate and  gentlemanly  personage  remarked,  with  his 
pleasant  smile,  passing  near  them  a  few  minutes 
afterwards. 

"  Rather,"  was  Handy's  response.  "Won't  you 
sit  down  with  us  ]" 

"  No  objection,  if  agreeable,"  was  the  prompt 
reply,  as  he  drew  up  a  chair. 

"  Still  rather  dull  work,"  he  said,  after  a  short 
time,  leaning  back  and  throwing  an  eye  around 
the  room.  "  I  wonder  if  we  can't  find  somebody 
else  that  would  like  to  take  a  hand  1  We  are  not 
now  evenly  balanced.  There  comes  a  man  who 
looks  as  if  he  wanted  to  be  either  winning  or  losing 
something,  not  much  odds  which.  Look  here, 
friend  !"  addressing  the  individual  to  whom  he 
had  alluded,  "  do  n't  you  want  to  take  a  hand  1" 

"  No  objection,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Come  along,  then.  I  want  a  partner ;  and  one 
with  a  clear,  cool  head,  too ;  for  one  of  my  young 


A   GAMING    ADVENTURE.  47 

friends  here,  at  least,  I  know  to  be  a  sharp  hand, 
and  I  more  than  guess  that  the  other  is  not  much 
behind  him." 

The  stranger  sat  down  with  the  rest,  and  the 
four  were  soon  deeply  buried  in  the  game  at  once 
commenced.  Ten  dollars  round  was  the  stake, 
and  for  a  time  the  games  all  ran  in  favor  of  Handy 
and  Ware.  A  proposition  to  double  the  stakes 
had  just  been  made  by  Handy,  when  the  individ- 
ual whom  they  had  noticed  below,  as  sitting  apart, 
absorbed  in  some  intensely  painful  struggle  of 
mind,  entered  the  room,  and  came  and  stood  be- 
side the  table  at  which  they  were  seated.  As  he 
did  so,  Ware  looked  up,  and  observed  that  his 
face  wore  a  fierce,  malignant,  determined  ex- 
pression. He  had  hardly  time  to  notice  this  when 
the  intruder  said — addressing  the  individual  who 
had  spoken  to  them  so  blandly,  on  their  entering 
the  room — in  low,  emphatic  tones  while  his  eye 
flashed,  and  his  face  grew  dark  with  suppressed 
anger — 

"  You  are  a  cheating  scoundrel,  sir  !  Here,  to 
your  teeth,  in  the  presence  of  these  young  gen- 
tlemen, I  brand  you  as  a  miserable,  cheating 
scoundrel !" 

The  change  that  instantly  passed  upon  the  face 
of  the  individual  addressed,  was  fearful  to  look 
upon.  The  bland,  open  countenance  became  in 
a  moment  rigid,  and  almost  black — while  his  eyes, 
before  so  mild  in  expression,  were  now  diiated, 
and  seemed  to  throw  out  corruscations  of  fiendish 
hate.  For  an  instant  only  he  paused,  and  then 
springing  to  his  feet,  he  dashed  both  fists  into 
the  face  of  the  person  \\rho  had  insulted  him.  be- 
fore the  latter  had  time  to  defend  himself.  Quick 
as  thought,  however,  the  other  regained  his  feet, 
a  large  knife  already  gleaming  in  his  hand,  and 
made  a  headlong  plunge  toward  the  assailant. 


BELL  MARTIN. 

That  individual  dexterously  avoided  the  blow 
aimed  at  his  heart,  which  was  made  with  such  a 
desperate  energy,  that  its  failure  caused  the  stran- 
ger to  fall  forward  upon  one  of  the  tables.  Ere 
he  could  recover  himself,  the  other  was  upon  him, 
bearing  him  down,  while  his  hand  made  two  or 
three  quick  plunges,  striking  his  sides  as  he  did  so 
with  some  sharp  instrument,  that  glistened  each 
time  it  was  raised  in  the  light. 

Desperate  were  the  struggles  now  made  by  the 
stranger  to  throw  off  his  antagonist,  but  the  gam- 
bler held  him  down  by  bearing  his  whole  weight 
upon  him,  every  now  and  then  stabbing  him  in 
the  side,  with  a  fierce  energy,  accompanying  each 
blow  with  some  hellish  imprecation.  All  this 
passed  before  any  one  had  time  to  interfere. 
But  a  crowd  gathered  round,  one  catching  the 
hand  that  held  the  deadly  weapon,  and  another 
dragging  him  off  of  the  wounded  man,  from 
whose  side  the  blood  already  gushed  in  copious 
streams.  Instantly  upon  being  thus  released,  the 
latter  turned  and  dashed  his  knife  into  the  abdo- 
men of  the  gambler.  As  he  did  so,  his  arm  fell 
nerveless  by  his  side  and  he  sank  upon  the  flooi 
a  ghastly  corpse. 


CHAPTER  VI, 


A   DILEMMA. 

"  THAT  was  a  horrible  affair,  last  night,"  Handy 
said  to  Ware,  on  their  meeting  next  morning. 

"  Horrible,  indeed !  I  was  never  so  shocked  ir« 
my  life.1' 


A   DILEMMA. 

"  So  it  was  Mr  P ,  then,  with  whom  we 

were  playing,  the  head  man  of  that  splendid 
establishment." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"  Hav  'nt  you  seen  the  newspapers  this  morn- 
ing V 

"I  have  seen  one  or  two,  but  none  of  them 
contained  any  allusion  to  that  affair." 

"  Here  is  one,  then,  which  has  the  full  particulars. 
And  rather  too  full  to  please  me." 

"  How  so  7" 

"Just  listen  to  this,"  drawing  a  newspaper  from 
his  pocket,  and  reading : 

"DESPERATE  RENCOUNTER  AT  P 's  SPLENDID  ESTAB- 
LISHMENT IN  CHESTNUT  STREET,  NEAR  ,  and  DEATH  OF 

ONE  OF  THE  PARTIES. — Last  night  at  about  ten  o'clock,  as 

P ,  the  principal  proprietor  of  the  gambling  rooms  in 

Chestnut  street  to  which  we  have  alluded  in  the  caption  of  this 
article,  was  engaged  at  play  with  a  couple  of  young  bloods  of 
•»his  city,  whose  names  are  in  our  possession,  an  individual 
came  up  and  insulted  him,  when  a  fight  ensued,  which  termi- 
nated in  the  death  of  the  latter,  who  received  several  severe 
stabs  in  the  side,  one  or  two  of  these  penetrating  his  heart 

In  return,  he  dealt  P a  fearful  wound  in  the  abdomen, 

which,  it  is  thought,  will  terminate  fatally.  We  have  not  yet 
learned  the  name  of  the  deceased.  We  understand  that  maw 
young  men  of  respectable  standing  in  society  were  found  in 
this  establishment  by  those  who  rushed  in  from  the  street  as 
soon  as  the  fatal  affray  became  known.  One,  in  particular, 
was  noticed  there,  the  son  of  a  wealthy  merchant,  who  is  en- 
gaged to  one  of  the  sweetest  maidens  in  the  city — a  rich 
heiress.  Poor  girl!  Though  now  the  envy  of  thousands,  if  she 
should  become  his  wife,  we  fear  that  the  time  will  come  when 
she,  in  turn,  will  envy  the  lot  of  even  the  most  lowly  and  ob> 
ecure,  in  whose  habitation  rests  the  sunshine  of  peace." 

"  Too  bad !  too  bad !"  ejaculated  Henry  Ware, 
pacing  the  room  backward  and  forward  with 
hurried  steps.  "Confound  these  officious  news- 
paper editors !  What  has  our  being  there,  to  do 
with  the  murder  that  was  committed  1  Just  no 
5 


50  BELL   MARTIN. 

thing  at  all !  But,  to  make  a  strong  paragraph 
we  must  be  lugged  in,  and  others  into  the  bargain 
And  he  says,  moreover,  that  he  has  our  names— 
and,  I  suppose,  will  publish  them  to-morrow." 

"  If  he  does,  I  will  cut  off  his  ears." 

"  Better  cut  his  head  off  before  he  does  it.  Why, 
I  wouldn't  have  it  known,  publicly,  that  I  was 
there  for  the  world." 

"You  might  at  once  bid  good-bye  to  Bell 
Martin,  and  her  father's  money,  if  that  were  to 
happen." 

"  And  that  it  will  happen,  I  fear  there  is  little 
doubt." 

"  Why  so  7" 

"  Does  not  this  officious  scoundrel  say  that  he 
has  our  names  1" 

"Well?" 

"  Of  course,  now  that  he  has  published  that  fact, 
he  will  be  called  upon  by  the  Attorney  Genera. 
to  give  the  names,  that  we  may  be  summoned  as 
witnesses  for  the  prosecution,  in  the  trial  that  will 

ensue,  should  P survive  his  wound,  which 

heaven  forbid!" 

"True!  true!"  Handy  said,  with  a  troubled 
look. 

"  If  it  comes  to  that,  it  will  be  a  death-blow  to 
my  prospects.  The  fact  of  my  having  been  in  a 
gambling-house,  and  engaged  in  playing  with 

P ,  which  will  appear  from  my  own  testimony 

on  oath,  will  at  once  set  my  hopes  at  rest." 

Handy  did  not  reply  to  this  for  some  time,  but 
sat  deeply  absorbed  in  thought.  At  length  he 
said — 

"  Every  thing  looks  dark  enough  in  your  case, 
Harry,  I  must  confess.  But  I  think  there  is  one 
hope," 

"  What  is  that  7" 

«« That  you  may  be  able  to  secure  Bell's  hand 


SUSPICIONS   AWAKENED.  51 

before  the  trial  comes  on.  In  the  mean  time,  you 
must  make  fair  weather,  if  possible,  with  the  At- 
torney General,  and  get  him  to  keep  your  name 
from  transpiring  as  one  of  the  witnesses,  until  the 
last  moment." 

"  Thank  you,  Tom,  for  that  hope.  I  see  there 
is  still  light  ahead.  But  this  vagabond  editor — 
what  shall  we  do  with  him  ]"  Suppose  he  were 
to  publish  our  names  1" 

"  He  must  not  do  that.  I  will  see  him  to-day, 
and  endeavor  to  secure  his  silence." 

"  Do  so,  if  possible.  But  what  if  old  Martin's 
eye  has  caught  this  unfortunate  paragraph  ]  His 
suspicions  will  be  almost  certainly  aroused." 

"  You  must  allay  them." . 

"  How  1" 

"  Do  not  ask  me.  Surely  you  are  possessed  of 
enough  cool  impudence  for  that.  Visit  there  as 
formerly — and  with  as  frank  and  easy  an  air. 
If  the  affray  last  evening  be  introduced  before  you 
have  time  to  allude  to  it,  converse  about  it  freely. 
Do  you  take  the  idea  1" 

"  Perfectly— and  shall  act  it  out  fully. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

SUSPICIONS   AWAKENED. 

"  BELL,  did  you  see  this  7"  asked  Mary,  coming 
into  Bell's  chamber,  and  handing  her  the  morning 
paper,  with  her  finger  on  the  paragraph  which 
had  disturbed  young  Ware's  peace"  of  mind  so 
seriously. 


52  BELL    MARTIN. 

«]\o — what  is  it  ?"  replied  the  maiden,  taking 
the  paper  and  glancing  over  the  article  pointed  to 
her. 

"  That  is  a  dreadful  affair,  truly,  Mary,"  said 
Bell,  as  she  finished  reading  the  paragraph,  in  a 
voice  of  more  than  scarcely   ordinary  concern. 
"  I  wonder  who  the  young  man  is,  alluded  to  as 
<         about  to  marry  some  beautiful  heiress  I    I  hope, 
/         at  least  for  her  sake,  that  this  notice  may  meet  her 

*  eye,  and  that  she  may  have  resolution  to  cast  him 

•  off  forever." 

"  Most  earnestly  do  I  hope  so,"  was  Mary's  an- 
swer, made  in  a  fervent  tone. 

"  You  seem  unusually  serious  about  the  matter, 
Mary,"  Bell  now  said,  looking  up  with  an  expres- 
sion of  surprise.  "  Have  you  any  idea  to  whom  al- 
lusion is  made  T 

Mary  hesitated  a  few  minutes  and  then  re- 
plied— 

"  I  have  my  suspicions." 

"  Then  where  do  they  rest  T' 

"  Pardon  me,  Bell.  Perhaps  it  is  the  earnest 
love  I  feel  for  you  that  makes  me  suspicious. 
But  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  you  are  the  maid- 
en alluded  to." 

"  Me,  Mary !"  ejaculated  Bell,  in  instant  and 
profound  astonishment.  "In  the  name  of  won- 
der !  what  has  put  that  into  your  head  1" 

"I  know  not  where  the  suggestion  came  from, 
Bell,"  said  Mary,  calmly  and  seriously.  "  But  the 
instant  I  read  that  notice  the  thought  flashed 
upon  my  mind  with  startling  vividness." 

"  It  is  not  a  true  thought,  Mary." 

"  I  sincerely  hope  not.  Time,  however,  I  trust, 
will  tell  whether  it  be  true  or  false." 

"You  are  not  prepossessed  in  Henry  Ware's 
favor,  Mary.  That  accounts  for  this  suspicion." 

"I  certainly  am  not  prepossessed  in  his  favor," 


SUSPICIONS   AWAKENED.  53 

replied  Mary,  "  and  never  have  been.    You  know 
that  I  have  said  this  from  the  first." 

"But  upon  what  ground  rests  your  prejudice 
against  him  1" 

"  I  am  afraid  that  he  can  never  love  you,  Bell, 
as  you  should  be  loved,"  replied  Mary,  in  a  voice 
that  was  low,  and  trembled  with  feeling. 

"  Certain  am  I,  Mary  that,  he  loves  me  deeply, 
and  tenderly.  Why  do  you  doubt  it  1" 

"To  me  he  does  not  seem  capable  of  loving  any  £ 
thing  half  so  well  as  himself.  Pardon  my  freedom  < 
of  speech  on  a  subject  of  such  a  delicate  nature.  £ 
As  I  have  said  before,  it  is  nothing  but  my  love  > 
for  you,  that  causes  me  to  speak  so  plainly." 

"  You  do  not  see  him  as  I  see  him,  Mary,  nor          I 
hear  the  peculiar  tones  of  his  voice  as  1  hear 
them." 

"I  know  that.     But  my  observation  of  him 
causes  me  to  doubt  his  sincerity.     I  do  not  see          ? 
him  often,  but  when  I  do,  I  observe  him  with  the 
closest  scrutiny ;  and  that  tells  me  that  he  is  insin- 
cere— that  he  is  acting  a  part." 

"  Something  has  blinded  your  mind  in  regard 
to  him,  Mary,  so  that  you  cannot  judge  him          \ 
fairly." 

"  I  think  not,  Bell.    Until  within  a  few  months, 
his  life  has  been  one  constant  round   of  selfish 
pleasure-taking.     He  has  kept  gay,  wild  company,          j 
and  been  the  gayest  and  wildest  of  all." 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  Mary  V 

"  I  have  heard  your  father  say  so." 

"  But  has  he  not  changed!  Did  not  my  father  / 
sny  that  likewise  1" 

"He  did." 

"  Does  not  that,  then,  satisfy  you  V 

"  Far  from  it.  Men  change  not  thus,  so  sudden- 
ly, without  a  sufficient  motive." 

"  And  what,  think  you,  his  motive !" 
5* 


54  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  To  gain  the  hand  of  Bell  Martin." 

"  And  if  to  gain  her  hand,"  said  the  maiden, 
while  her  cheek  deepened  its  color,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled,  "  he  would  forego  all  these,  think  you 
not  that  to  keep  that  hand,  and  the  heart  that  goes 
with  it,  he  would  not  still  forego  them?" 

To  this  triumphant  appeal  on  the  part  of  Bell, 
Mary  made  no  reply ;  though  it  did  not  satisfy  her 
mind,  far  more  acute  in  its  perceptions  of character 
than  the  maiden's  with  whom  she  was  conversing. 
The  reader's  knowledge  of  the  facts  in  the  case, 
will,  of  course,  approve  her  judgment.  Men  do 
not  thus  suddenly  change  a  course  of  life  in  which 
they  have  taken  delight,  without  some  strong  in- 
fluencing motive.  And  it  would  be  well  for  the 
happiness  of  many  a  fond,  confiding  girl,  if  she 
would  lay  this  axiom  up  in  her  heart. 

Let  every  young  woman  beware  of  the  suitor, 
especially  if  she  have  in  possession  or  prospect  a 
fortune,  who  suddenly  reforms  or  changes  his 
course  of  life  upon  making  advances  toward  her. 
Previous  habits,  when  the  stronger  motive  of  secu- 
ring her  hand  is  withdrawn,  will,  in  nine  cases 
oufof  ten,  return  and  become  as  strong  and  ac- 
tive as  ever.  Then  will  come  the  bitterness  which 
nothing  can  allay.  Then  will  come  neglect,  per- 
haps unkindness,  and,  it  may  be,  cruelty.  Who 
would  not  pause  and  reflect  ?  Who  would  not 
hesitate,  and  ponder  well  the  chances,  before  run- 
ning such  a  risk]  A  neglected  wife  ! — Oh  !  who 
would  be  that  heart-broken  thing"?  And,  worse 
than  all,  how  often  do  early  habits  of  dissipation 
become  confirmed  ?  Then  comes  severer  anguish 
than  even  springs  from  neglect  alone.  Poverty- 
wretchedness — and  the  untold  pangs  of  a  drunk- 
ard's wife  are  the  attendants  of  these  !  Again  we 
say,  let  the  maiden  know  well  the  character  of  the 
man  she  marries :  and  the  more  elevated  her  sta- 


SUSPICIONS    AWAKENED.  55 

\         tion  in  life,  the  more  guarded  let  her  be.    The 
/          greater  the  villain,  the  higher  his  aim. 


"  Did  you  see  the  account  of  that  affray  last 
night,  Henry  ?"  asked  Mr.  Martin,  suddenly,  on 
the  evening  succeeding  the  event  alluded  to,  eye- 
ing the  young  man  closely  as  he  did  so. 

Henry  Ware  was  sitting  upon  the  sofa  beside 
Bell,  at  the  time  the  question  was  asked. 

"  I  did,"  was  his  prompt  reply,  turning  round 
toward  Mr.  Martin,  and  looking  him  steadily  in 
the  face.  "  It  seems  to  have  been  rather  a  desper- 
ate affair," 

"  It  certainly  does.  I  wonder  who  the  young 
man  can  be  to  whom  allusion  is  made  in  the 
paper  of  this  morning  V 

"  I  really  do  not  know ;  although  I  have  my  sus- 
picions," was  the  cool  reply  of  Ware,  still  looking 
at  Mr.  Martin,  with  an  expression  of  unconcern 
upon  his  face. 

"  Upon  whom  do  they  rest,  Henry  ?" 

"  I  do  n't  know  that  it  is  exactly  fair  to  mention 
\  such  suspicions;  but  of  course  they  will  be  sacred 
'i  here.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  the  individual 

there  alluded  to  is  James  L .  You  know  that 

|  he  is  engaged  to  Miss  Eberly." 

"  Can  it  be  possible !"  said  Mr.  Martin,  in 
surprise. 

"  Both  possible  and  probable,"  resumed  Ware. 
"  I  know  that  he  has  been  in  the  habit  of  visiting 
that  establishment  for  some  time  past.  It  is  only 
a  week  since  I  remonstrated  with  him  about  it, 
and  tried  to  show  him  that  it  was  a  certain  road 
to  ruin." 

"  You  surprise  and  pain  me  very  much,  Henry. 
I  had  a  very  different  opinion  of  James  L . 

'•  Few  suspect  him  of  being  wedded  to  the  vice 
of  gaming.  But  it  is,  aJas !  too  true.  Of  the 
handsome  fortune  left  him  by  his  father,  I  doubt 


56  BELL  MARTIN. 

if  there  is  any  thing,  over  a  meagre  remnant, 
left." 

"  It  is  really  dreadful  to  think  about,"  said  Mrs. 
Martin,  "  What  a  sad  prospect  for  Caroline 
Eberly !" 

"  This  affair,"  remarked  Ware,  cooly,  "  may 
lead  to  such  an  exposure  of  him,  as  will  open  her 
eyes ;  and  for  her  sake,  I  earnestly  hope  that  it 
may  be  so." 

Thus  did  this  young  but  accomplished  villain, 
to  draw  suspicion  from  himself,  assail  the  charac- 
ter of  an  innocent  young  man.  Mr.  Martin,  on 
whose  mind  the  most  painful  doubts  had  rested 
ever  since  the  morning,  was  now  fully  satisfied  that 
his  suddenly  awakened  fears  had  done  injustice  to 
Henry  Ware.  His  manner  and  the  expression  of 
his  face  were  to  him  full  of  innocence.  He  even 
regretted  having  made  an  effort  to  obtain  the 
names  of  the  individuals  mentioned  in  the  notice 
of  the  affray,  by  going  to  the  newspaper  office, 
where  the  editor  declined  answering  his  question. 
He  was  not,  of  course,  aware  that  Thomas  Handy 
had  been  there  half  an  hour  before  him,  and  in- 
formed said  editor  that  if  he  divulged  the  names 
of  the  persons  to  whom  he  had  alluded,  he  would 
have  his  ears  cut  off,  and,  perhaps,  his  life  taken ! 


CHAPTER  VIII, 

A   TROUBLESOME   AFFAIR. 

"  GOOD  morning,  Mr.  Blackstone,"  said  Henry 
Ware,  entering  the  office  of  the  Attorney  General, 
about  three  weeks  after  the  fatal  affray.  "  So 


A   TROUBLESOME   AFFAIR.  P7 

you've    got    me    down    for    that    unpleasant 
affair  ]" 

"To  what  do  you  allude,  Mr.  Ware]"  the 
Attorney  General  asked,  gravely. 

"  To  the  affair  which  came  off  up  Chesnut  street, 
<          some  two  or  three  weeks  ago." 

"Do  you  refer  to  the  murder  of by  P V 

"  Yes.     To  that  murder,  or  manslaughter,  or 
j          homicide,  which  ever  you  feel  disposed  to  call  it. 
But.  as  I  was  saying,  you  have  got  me  down  for 
;         one  of  the  witnesses  1" 

"  Oh  yes.  Now  I  remember ;  and  a  very  impor- 
tant one  you  are.  You  were  present  at  the  be- 
ginning, through  the  progress,  and  at  the  termina- 
tion, of  the  affray ;  and,  of  course,  your  testimony 
will  decide  the  matter.  You  were  playing  with 

P at  the  time  came  up  to  the  table  at 

I          which  he  was  sitting,  I  understand,  Was  that  so  1" 
"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  was,"  Ware  replied, 
',          his  tone  changing  a  good  deal,  in  spite  of  a  deter 
mined  effort  not  to  let  the  deep  concern  he  felt  be- 
come too  visible. 

"  That  is  important,"  returned  Mr.  Blackstone, 

/          with  a  thoughtful  air.     "  I  hope,"  he  added,  in  a 

few  moments  after,  "  that  you  will  keep  the  whole 

j          scene  fresh  in  your  memory,  so  as  to  describe  it 

accurately." 

"  But  can  you  not,  possibly,  dispense  with  my 
•;          testimony '!"     Ware  asked.     "  There  were  many 
others  present,  who  can  fully  attest  all  the  facts  in 
the  case." 

"  We  have  failed  to  learn  any  of  their  names, 
except  that  of  Thomas  Handy,  who  has  been  sum- 
moned to  appear  as  well  as  yourself." 

"  Why  will  not  his  evidence  be  conclusive  in  the 
matter  1" 

"  Because,  as  you  well  know,   corroborating 
\          testimony  is  always  desirable." 

j 


08  BELL   MARTIN. 

How  soon  will  the  case  come  on  1" 

"At  the  next  term,  which  commences  in  a~jout 
two  months." 

The  young  man's  countenance  fell,  and  he 
seemed  troubled  at  this  information.  A  brief 
silence  followed,  and  then  he  said,  while  his  voice 
slightly  trembled — 

"  I  have  reasons,  Mr,  Blackstone,  of  a  very  im- 
portant nature,  for  not  wishing  to  appear  in  this 
case." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it  Mr.  Ware ;  and  regret  the 
absolute  necessity  for  calling  you." 

"Do  not  say  absolute  necessity,  Mr.  Black- 
stone,"  Ware  rejoined,  while  his  manner  became 
agitated.  "  I  cannot,  I  must  not  appear !" 

"  What  detriment  can  it  be  to  you  simply  to  re- 
late what  you  saw]  You  were  no  actor  in  the 
case." 

"  But  I  could  not  have  seen  what  passed  in  that 
establishment,  if  I  had  not,  unfortunately,  been 
there.  It  is  the  fact  of  my  presence  there  that  1 
do  not  wish  known." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  the  existing  necessity,"  replied 
the  Attorney  General ; "  but  cannot  accede  to  your 
desire.  The  evidence  which  you  can  give  is  of 
too  much  importance  to  the  State  to  be  waived." 

The  manner  of  Ware  became  still  more  agita- 
ted at  this. 

"  You  know  not,  Mr.  Blackstone,"  he  said,  in 
an  earnest  and  almost  supplicating  tone,  "  how 
muc.l  depends  upon  the  concealment  of  the  fact 
that  I  was  present  at  that  unfortunate  affray.  If 
it  should  become  known,  it  will  mar  all  my  ex- 
pectations  in  life." 

"  I  regret  exceedingly  to  hear  you  say  so,"  the 
Attorney  General  simply  remarked  at  this;  and 
then  the  young  man  went  on — 

"  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Blackstone,  to  make  you 


A   TROUBLESOME   AFFAIR.  5U 

fujly  sensible  of  my  situation,  in  the  hope  that  an 
appreciation  of  it  may  induce  you  to  consider  me 
more  than  you  are  now  inclined  to  do,  I  will  men- 
tion, that  I  have  recently  made  proposals  to  old 
Mr.  Martin,  for  the  hand  of  his  youngest  daugh- 
ter, and  tuat  I  am  now  awaiting  a  decision.  I 
have  no  doubt  of  its  being  in  my  favor.  But 
should  this  fact  get  out  before  the  consummation 
of  the  marriage,  the  engagement  will  inevitably 
be  broken  off.  I  was  a  fool  to  go  to  that  miser- 
able place  any  how  ;  and  should  n't  have  done  so 
had  it  not  been  for  the  persuasion  of  a  friend,  for  I 
have  no  taste  for  such  amusements." 

"  I  certainly  feel  for  your  situation  very  much," 
said  Mr.  Blackstone.  And  he  only  spoke  what  he 
felt ;  for  he  really  believed  the  concluding  portion 
of  the  young  man's  statement,  not  having  had 
much  knowledge  of  his  previous  character  and 
habits  of  life. 

"  It  is  a  very  peculiar  and  very  critical  one,  in- 
deed," was  Ware's  reply.  And  I  do  hope  you 
will,  as  it  is  in  your  power,  duly  consider  the  deli- 
cate position  in  which  I  am  placed." 

"  But  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  do  so,  Mr.  Ware." 

"How  can  that  be?  Is  it  not  upon  your  sum- 
mons that  all  witnesses  appear  V' 

"  Very  true.  But  in  this  act  I  cannot  be  gov- 
erned by  any  considerations  except  those  which 
regard  justice." 

"  Still,  justice  may  be  attained  as  fully  by  my 
non-appearance,  as  by  my  appearance." 

"  I  do  not  think  so." 

"  But  .surely  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Handy  will  be 
conclusive." 

"  It  may  not  be  in  the  minds  of  all  the  jurors. 
But  if  in  your  testimony  and  Handy's  there  be  a 
corroborating  agreement  on  some  important 
joints,  then  doubt  will  be  set  aside.  You  see, 


GO  BELL   MARTIN. 

therefore,  that  it  is  impossible  for  me,  much  as  1 
feel  for  you  in  so  unpleasant  a  position,  to  accede 
to  your  wishes.    Were  it  in  my  power,  I  would 
do  so  cheerfully ;  but,  as  I  have  before  said,  it  is          >t 
not  in  my  power.     I  cannot  let  any  personal  con-          \ 
sideration  interfere  to  endanger  the  cause  of  jus- 
tice." 

"  Do  not  say,  that  in  this  resolution  you  are  \ 
fixed,  Mr.  Blackstone,"  returned  Ware,  appeal-  \ 
ingly. 

"  I  certainly  do  say  so,  and  emphatically,"  was          / 
the  firm  reply.     "  My  office  is  a  responsible  one  ; 
and  in  the  discharge  of  its  duties,  I  suffer  myself 
to  know  no  man." 

There  was  now  a  long  silence,  deeply  troubled 
on  the  part  of  the  young  man. 

"  And  you  think  the  trial  will  come  on  at  the 
next  term  ]"  he  at  length  asked  in  an  anxious  tone. 

"Oh  yes.    It  is  already  entered  for  the  next 
Court." 

Perceiving  by  the  manner  of  the  Attorney  Gene- 
ral,  that  it  was  useless  to  urge  him  farther,  Henry 
Ware  retired,  with  a  feeling  of  deeper  and  more 
painful  anxiety  than  he  had  evei  experienced. 
He  had  fondly  believed  that,  under  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  the  case,  where  there  was 
another  witness  who  could  testify  as  fully  and  as 
clearly  as  himself  to  all  the  facts  which  had  occur- 1 
red,  there  would  be  no  great  difficulty  in  his  get-  ' 
ting  relieved  from  the  duty  of  a  witness,  but  this 
hope  the  Attorney  General  had  dashed  to  the 
ground.  And  he  now  saw  himself  standing,  as  it 
were,  on  the  brink  of  utter  ruin,  as  he  esteemed  it. 
For  if  he  failed  under  these  circumtstances,  to  se- 
cure the  hand  of  Bell  Martin,  the  fact  would  be- 
come  so  notorious,  that  all  hope  of  securing  any 
other  prize  of  equal  value,  would  be  cut  off.  It 
would,  likewise,  involve  such  an  exposure,  as  to 


A  TROUBLESOME   AFFAIR. 

utterly  destroy  his  father's  newly  awakened  con- 
fidence, and  cause  him  further  to  curtail  supplies 
of  money.  This  would  necessarily  separate  them 
so  far  as  to  make  it  very  doubtful  whether  the  old 
gentleman,  at  his  death,  would  trust  much  of  his 
property  in  the  hands  of  one  in  whose  habits  and 
principles  there  was  so  little  to  approve. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  now  1"  he  asked,  thought- 
fully, as  he  seated  himself  in  his  office.  "If  this 
comes  out  before  Bell  is  mine,  the  whole  jig  is  up. 
And  what  then !  Why,  the  old  man  will  be  so 
incensed,  that,  in  all  probability,  he  will  tell  me  to 
go  and  shift  for  myself.  And  a  pretty  figure  I 
would  make  at  that  kind  of  work.  What  could  I 
do)  Gamble,  I  suppose,  and  nothing  else:  and 
not  much  headway  would  I  make  at  that,  it  strikes 
me.  But  if  I  could  only  get  fairly  spliced  to  Bell, 
I  would  have  two  strings  to  my  bow.  My  old  dad, 
and  hers  too,  would  then  think  twice  before  cut- 
ting loose  from  me.  And,  besides,  I  would  have 
two  deep  pockets  to  thrust  my  hand  in,  ard  both 
together,  it  strikes  me,  ought  to  keep  me  in  spend- 
ing money.  Let  me  see : — this  trial  will  come  on 
in  two  months.  Can 't  I  push  the  business  through 
in  that  time  1  I  must  try  :  for  every  thing  depends 
upon  it.  Certainly,  old  Martin  has  had  full  time 
to  consider,  and  decide  upon  my  offer !  And  I 
think  he  has  decided  favorably,  for  his  manner 
grows  more  and  more  encouraging  and  familiar 
every  time  I  meet  him.  I  '11  see  him  this  very  day 
and  press  for  an  answer ;  and  if  that  should  be 
favorable,  will  next  urge  an  immediate  marriage. 
It  is  my  only  course." 

Acting  upon  this  decision,  Ware  sought  and  ob- 
tained a  private  interview  with  Mr.  Martin  on  that 
afternoon. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  Mr.  Martin,"  he  said, 
after  alluding  to  the  object  of  his  visit,  "  for  my  so 
6 


\ 

BELL   MARTIN. 

early  asking  a  decision.    Young  folks,  you  know,          \ 
are  restless  under  uncertainties^— and,  especially, 
under  an  uncertainty  of  this  nature,  you  cannot          jj 
wonder  that  I  should  feel  anxious.     I  trust,  there- 
fore, that  you  have  taken  pains  to  satisfy  yourself 
as  to  my  ability  to  render  your  daughter  happy, 
and  are  now  prepared  to  give  me  a  final  answer." 

The  old  man  sat  thoughtful  for  some  moments, 
after  Ware  had  ceased  speaking.  All  that  he  had 
seen  or  heard,  since  his  proposal  for  the  hand  of 
Bell,  had  caused  him  to  think  more  and  more  fa- 
vorably of  the  young  man's  suit.  And  yet  he  did 
not  feel  satisfied.  Whenever  he  thought  of  re- 
sining  his  daughter  to  Ware,  it  was  with  feelings 
of  unconquerable  reluctance.  The  man  he  would 
choose  for  his  child,  if  the  full  choice  were  his, 
would  be  one  in  whom  correct  principles  had  been 
early  implanted,  and  had  grown  with  his  growth, 
and  strengthened  with  his  strength.  Such  was  not 
the  case  with  Ware.  With  him,  correct  principles 
were  of  but  a  hot-bed  growth ;  and,  therefore,  he 
could  feel  no  well-grounded  confidence  in  them. 
Still,  he  would  condemn  this  kind  of  judgment,  on 
the  argument  that  the  young  man  had  evidently 
seen  his  error,  and  was  now  thoroughly  reform- 
ing himself.  That,  with  maturer  years,  a  youth- 
ful love  of  exciting  pleasures  and  loose  company 
had  subsided,  never  again  to  exercise  any  control- 
ing  influence  over  him. 

"  In  one  week  I  will  give  you  a  decisive  answer, 
Henry,"  Mr.  Martin  af  length  replied. 

"  Even  a  week  seems  a  great  while  to  prolong 
this  kind  of  suspense,  Mr.  Martin.  I  have  already 
waited  with  as  much  as  I  could  exercise,  for  many 
weeks." 

"  But  there  need  be  no  hurry  about  the  matter, 
Henry.  You  are  both  young,  and  won  't  expect 
to  be  married  for  a  twelvemonth  to  come." 


LIGHT   AHEAD.  63 

I 

This  remark  made  the  young  man's  spirits  sink 
at  once.  If  not  married  within  a  twelvemonth, 
very  certain  was  he,  that  he  should  never  be  mar- 
ried at  all  to  Bell  Martin.  But  he  would  not  trust 
himself  to  reply.  The  first  thing  was  to  gain  the 
father's  consent  to  marry  her  at  all. 

"  I  must  wait  a  week,  you  say  7"  he  remarked 
after  a  brief  silence. 

"  In  a  week  I  will  be  prepared  to  decide  upon 
your  proposition." 

"  It  will  be  a  month  to  me,"  said  Ware,  as  he 
arose  to  depart. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LIGHT   AHEAD. 

"Is  it  all  settled,  Harry?" 

"  The  child  is  christened " 

"  And  named  Anthony  ?" 

"  You  've  said  it.  The  old  man  could  n't  but  give 
his  consent,  though  it  came  reluctantly ;  and  then 
the  way  he  piled  on  the  admonition  was  a  •  sin  to 
curious.'  " 

"  Good  advice,  no  doubt.    What  was  it  like  1" 

"  That 's  more  than  I  can  tell." 

«'  Went  into  one  ear  and  out  of  the  other,  eh  ?" 

"  Not  even  that.  It  did  n't  find  its  way  into 
either  ear.  I  wanted  his  daughter  and  not  his 
advice." 

"  So  far  so  good.  But  the  next  question  is, 
how  soon  will  he  consent  to  let  you  marry  her  ?" 

"  Next  year !"  in  a  tone  of  bitter  irony. 

u  Never,  you  had  better  say." 


BELL   MARTIN. 

"  It  will  be  never,  if  not  within  a  year,  that  is 
certain." 

"  That  confounded  trial  will  be  here  in  less  than 
two  months." 

"  And  in  less  than  two  months  all  my  hopes  will 
be  scattered  before  the  wind  if  I  cannot  manage  to 
secure  Bell's  hand  within  that  period." 

"  Is  there  any  possible  hope  of  doing  so  ?" 

"  I  'm  afraid  not.  But  I  must  try.  While  there 
.s  life  there  is  hope,  Tom,  as  the  doctors  say.  So 
far  I  have  managed  to  throw  dust  in  the  old  peo- 
ple's eyes,  and  get  their  consent  to  marry  Bell.  I 
must  now  do  my  best  to  accomplish  another  end, 
fully  as  important  as  the  first." 

"  How  will  you  go  about  it  1" 

"  I  have  been  racking  my  brains  over  that  for 
the  past  week,  in  anticipation  of  the  acceptance 
of  my  suit,  and  can  thus  far,  think  of  but  one 
way." 

"What  is  that1?" 

"  To  get  my  old  man  in  favour  of  an  immediate 
marriage,  and  then  set  him  to  work  on  Martin." 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  bring  him  over  to  your 
side  ]" 

"  I  can  only  try." 

"  But  are  you  sanguine  1" 

"  I  am.  He  knows  I  Ve  been  a  pretty  wild  boy 
in  my  time,  and  is  now  tickled  to  death  at  the  idea 
of  my  reformation.  II  I  can  only  manage  to  get 
the  notion  into  his  head  that  there  is  still  some 
danger  of  my  getting  back  into  the  gall  of  bitter- 
ness and  the  bonds  of  iniquity,  until  the  protecting 
arms  of  a  wife  are  thrown  around  me — he  is  safe 
on  my  side  of  the  question." 

"But  how  will  you  manage  that1?  It  would 
jj  hardly  do  for  you  to  insinuate  such  a  thing." 

"  Of  course  not.  But  I  have  a  friend  of  my  own 
kidney  who  has  often  served  me  before,  and  I  am 


LIGHT   AHEAD.  OiJ 

going  to  make  a  requisition  on  him  for  this  especial 
business." 

"  Indeed  !    And  who  might  that  friend  be?" 

•'  He  might  be  one  Thomas  Handy,  alias,  Tom 
Handy — a  chap  of  notable  parts — and,  moreover 
is  the  said  Tom  Handy." 

"  Exactly." 

"  And  of  course  Tom  Handy  is  still  as  ready  t 
'/          serve  his  friend  as  ever  1" 

"  My  hand  for  that.  But  how  am  I  to  manage 
this  for  you  7" 

"  You  must  fall  in  with  the  old  man." 

"  He  don 't  love  me  very  tenderly,  you  must  re- 
member." 

"  I  am  fully  aware  of  that  fact.  But  I  have  been 
wearing  down  his  prejudice  for  the  past  week  with 
might  and  main." 

"  You  have  ?'' 

"  O,  yes.  Whenever  I  could  manage  to  get 
something  to  say  about  Thomas  Handy,  I  lugged 
your  honourable  self  in,  head  and  shoulders." 

"  He  did  n't  like  my  company,  I  presume  1" 

"It  did  disturb  him  at  first.  But  I  surprised 
him  with  the  pleasing  information  that  there  had 
occurred  in  you  a  most  salutary  change  of  late." 

"  O,  dear !  ha !  ha  !  ha  !  Hush,  Harry,  or  you 
will  kill  me !" 

"  Mainly  brought  about,  I  informed  him,  by  my 
influence  and  example.  That  you  had  been  a  wild 
boy  in  your  time,  there  was  no  denying.  But 
having  sowed  your  wild  oats,  you  were  no  w  setting 
seriously  and  earnestly  about  the  business  of  life." 

"He  did  n't  believe  you]" 

"  He  did — every  word  !  It  would  have  done  (( 
your  heart  good  to  see  how  pleased  he  was.  '  You 
see,  Harry,'  he  said,  'how much  depends  on  every 
individual.  We  do  not  stand  alone.  Every  act 
whether  good  or  evil,  carries  its  salutary  or  inju« 
6* 


66  BELL   MARTIN. 

rious  effect  into  society,  and  there  reproduces  it- 
self, often  in  innumerable  forms.     Let  this  truth,          \ 
my  dear  son,  sink  deep  into  your  heart.     And  for          \ 
the  sake  of  others,  if  not  for  your  own,  let  every          \ 
act  bear  with  it  a  healthful  influence.'    Now  what 
do  you  think  of  that  1" 

"He'd  make  a  first-rate  preacher,  wouldn't 
he!" 

"  So  I  thought." 

"  And  he  is  prepossessed  in  my  favour  !" 

"  O,  decidedly.  Now  I  want  you  to  fall  in  with 
him  as  soon  as  possible,  for  no  time  is  to  be  lost, 
and  do  the  right  thing  by  me.  I  need  not  tell  you 
in  what  way.  That,  of  course,  you  understand." 

"  Perfectly." 

"  When  do  you  think  you  can  see  him  1" 

"  I  do  n't  know.  I  must  fall  in  with  him  by  ac- 
cident, of  course.  Let  me  consider.  At  what  time 
does  he  go  to  the  store  after  dinner?" 

"  About  four  o'clock." 

"  Takes  wine  pretty  freely  at  the  table  1" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  is  always  in  a  good  humor  afterwards  V 

"  Generally  so." 

"  I  '11  meet  him,  then,  by  accident,  on  some  cor- 
ner between  your  house  and  the  store,  and  walk 
down  the  street  with  him.  As  we  go  along,  I  will 
do  my  prettiest  to  interest  him  ;  so  that  when  we 
pause  at  the  store  door,  he  '11  say, '  Come  !  won  't 
you  walk  in,  Thomas  V  Of  course  I  will  go  in. 
How  do  you  like  that  style  of  doing  the  thing  V 

"  Admirably !" 

"  But  is  he  alone  much  in  his  counting-room  V 

"  Yes,  especially  in  the  afternoon.     There  is  a 
cosy  little  office  just  back  of  the  main  counting-          / 
room,  in  which  is  a  large  arm-chair,  that  has  gen- 
erally some  attractions  for  him   after  a  hearty 
dinner.    He  will,  in  all  probability,  invite  you  in 


LIGHT   AHEAD.  67 

there.  If  he  does,  you  will  have  a  fair  chance  at 
him." 

"  And  I  '11  do  my  prettiest." 

"  I  will  trust  you  for  that,  Tom.  You  are  true 
blue,  when  you  undertake  to  perform  a  friendly 
act." 

About  four  o'clock  on  the  next  day,  Thomas 
Handy  met  old  Mr.  Ware,  "  by  accident,"  a  short 
distance  from  his  store.  During  the  dinner  hour, 
Henry  Ware  had  artfully  introduced  his  friend  in 
conversation,  and  by  the  relation  of  some  imagin- 
ed circumstances,  and  the  repetition  of  some  im- 
agined sentiments  attributed  to  him,  very  much 
interested  his  father  in  the  young  man.  tie  was, 
in  consequence,  prepared  to  give  him  a  pleasant 
word  and  a  bland  smile,  which  Handy  appropri- 
ated very  coolly  and  very  naturally.  Then,  as  he 
was  going  the  same  way,  a  pleasant  conversation 
sprung  up,  which  was  just  at  a  point  of  interest 
when  they  arrived  at  Mr.  Ware's  store,  that  made 
him  feel  inclined  to  invite  the  young  man  to  walk 
in.  Of  course,  Thomas  Handy  made  no  excuse.  In 
a  few  moments  after,  he  was  snugly  seated  in  the 
cosy  little  office  of  which  his  friend  had  told  him, 
with  Mr.  Ware  as  snugly  fixed  in  his  great  arm- 
chair. 

"  Well,  Thomas,"  remarked  the  old  gentleman, 
after  he  had  got  fairly  settled,  looking  at  Handy 
with  quite  a  complacent,  benevolent  expression  on 
his  countenance,  "  it  must  be  as  great  a  pleasure  to 
your  father  as  it  is  to  me,  to  know  that  you  young 
men  are  beginning  to  see  with  different  eyes,  and 
to  act  from  different  views." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  it  is,"  was  the  prompt,  cool,  heart- 
less reply.  '>  My  father  seems  like  another  man. 
But  you  can,  no  doubt,  enter  into  his  feelings  more 
fully  than  I  can." 

"  Very  truly  said.    None  but  a  father  can  pos- 


1 


BELL    MARTIN. 

sibly  realize,  fully,  a  father's  feelings  under  such 
circumstances.  For  my  part,  I  can  say,  that  the 
change  which  has  become  apparent  in  Harry,  has 
taken  a  mountain  from  my  heart." 

"No  doubt  of  it,  sir!  No  doubt  of  it!"  was 
Handy's  fervent  response.  "For  the  change  in 
Harry  has  been  great  indeed." 

"  Indeed  it  has." 

"  And  I  most  earnestly  trust  that  he  will  abide 
by  it." 

"  Abide  by  it  1  He  must  abide  by  it,  Thomas  ! 
I  cannot  think  of  his  going  back  again.  It  would 
almost  kill  me.  O,  if  he  only  knew  the  world  of 
misery  I  have  suffered  in  consequence  of  his  past 
life,  he  would  die  rather  than  think  of  returning 
to  his  previous  habits  !" 

There  was  a  tremulousness  and  a  pathos  in  the 
old  man's  voice,  that  even  reached,  in  some  de- 
gree, the  ice-bound  feelings  of  the  young  man  with 
whom  he  was  conversing.  But  the  "effect  was 
neither  deep  nor  permanent.  The  selfish  end  he 
had  in  view,  quickly  dispersed  even  these  small 
touches  of  nature. 

"The  influence  of  habits,  confirmed  by  long  in- 
dulgence, are  not  thrown  off  in  a  day,  Mr.  Ware," 
he  replied,  in  a  serious  tone.  "  Both  Henry  and 
myself  will  have  to  struggle  manfully  before  we 
have  fully  conquered.  And  struggle  we  will.  In 
this  effort  we  need  all  the  kind  consideration  and 
aid  that  we  can  receive  from  those  upon  whom 
we  have  any  claims." 

"  And  surely  you  have  both,  Thomas." 

"  We  have,  so  far  as  our  condition  can  be  ap- 
preciated. But  you,  who  have  never  felt  the 
force  of  such  habits  as  we  have  contracted,  can 
no  more  fully  sympathize  with  us,  than  we  can 
fully  sympathize  with  you.  Do  you  understand 
me!" 


LIGHT   AHEAD.  6S 

"  I  do.     But  why  do  you  speak  thus  7" 

"  I  have  been  led,  almost  involuntarily,  to  say  \ 
what  I  have,  Mr.  Ware,  from — from—" 

"  From  what,  Thomas  1     Speak  out  plainly." 

The  young  man  hesitated  for  a  few  moments,          I 
as  if  deliberating  some  question  in  his  mind,  and 
then  said,  in  a  serious  tone —  j 

"  I  had  no  thought  of  saying  what  I  am  now  al-          / 
most  compelled  to  say,  seeing  that  I  have  excited, 
unintentionally,  a  concern  in  your  mind.     You 
must  not,  of  course,  intimate  to  Harry,  even  re- 
motely, that  I  have  said  what  I  am  now  about         \ 
saying." 

"  O,  no,  of  course  not,  Thomas." 

"  You  know,  then,  I  presume,  that  he  has  been  j. 
addressing  Bell  Martin  7" 

"Yes/' 

"  I  learned  from  him  yesterday  that  her  father 
had  consented  to  the  marriage." 

"  So  I  heard  last  evening." 

"  But  he  thinks  it  time  enough  for  them  to  get 
married  in  a  year  from  now." 

"  Well  1" 

"  Do  you  know  that  the  first  effort  Henry  made          j; 
to  reform  his  course  of  life,  was  after  his  affections 
had  become  fixed  upon  Bell  7" 

"  I  do  not  know  it  certainly." 

"  It  is  true.  We  are  intimate  friends,  and  I  know          : 
it  to  be  true.  He  loves  her  fondly  and  passionately 
— and  is,  of  course,  very  much  disappointed  at  the 
stand  which  her  father  has  taken.  A  year  is  a  long 
time  to  wait."  ; 

"It   is  a  good  while — but  it  will  soon  pass 
round." 

To  him  it  will  not.  The  hours,  and  days,  and  \ 
weeks,  will  drag  wearily  and  heavily.  To  speak  ;. 
frankly  and  seriously,  Mr.  Ware,  I  fear  for  its  \ 
effect  upon  him.  You  know  his  ardent  temper- 


70  BELL   MARTIN. 

ament,  and  how  little  used  he  has  been  to  selfi 
denial." 
y  "  You  speak  seriously,  Thomas." 

"  It  is  because  I  feel  serious  in  this  matter.  I 
am  much  attached  to  Harry,  and  whatever  deeply 
concerns  him  concerns  me." 

"  In  what  way  do  you  fear  that  it  will  affect  him 
injuriously  1" 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  can  hardly  tell  myself.  But  I 
have  a  vague  fear  that  I  cannot  shake  off — a  dim, 
troubled  idea  that  has  haunted  me  ever  since  I  saw 
his  strong  manifestation  of  disappointment.  For 
relief  of  mind,  he  may  fall  back  in  some  weak 
moment,  upon  old  and  exciting  pleasures,  and 
then  his  danger  would  be  great,  very  great.  I 
tremble  to  think  of  it." 

"  You  certainly  alarm  me,  Thomas." 

"I  do  not  wish,  Mr.  Ware,  to  disturb  your 
mind,  and  would  not  do  so,  did  I  not  feel  so  deep 
an  interest  in  your  son.  An  ounce  of  preven- 
tion, you  know,  is  worth  a  pound  of  cure.  It  is 
in  the  hope  that  through  your  influence  all  dan- 
ger may  be  put  far  away,  that  I  now  speak  to  you 
as  I  do." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  Thomas.  I  feel  the  force 
of  your  generous  interest.  But  if  that  is  all,  we 
need  not  disturb  our  minds.  They  might  just  as 
well  be  married  now  as  a  year  hence." 

"  So  I  think.  There  can  be  no  reason  for 
waiting." 

"  None  at  all.  I  will  see  Mr.  Martin,  and  have 
that  matter  settled  at  once." 

"  You  have  indeed,  sir,  taken  a  load  from  my 
mind,"  said  Handy,  earnestly  and  sincerely. 
Then,  after  a  brief  pause  for  reflection,  he  added  ; 

"  Urge  Mr.  Martin  to  permit  the  marriage  to 
take  place  at  a  very  early  period.  I  shall  never 
feel  that  Henry  is  perfectly  safe,  un-til  this  new 


IN  DIFFICULTY    AGAIN.  71 

relation    is   formed.    Then,  all   danger  will   be 


"  It  shall  take  place  soon,  I  pledge  myself  for 
that,"  replied  Mr.  Ware.  "  I  understand  Bell's 
father  as  well  as  he  understands  himself,  and  I 
know  how  to  take  him.  Trust  me,  sir ;  they  shall 
be  married  as  early  as  they  wish." 

Thus  much  gained,  Handy  soon  after  arose,  and 
bade  Mr.  Ware  good  day. 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN  DIFFICULTY    AGAIN. 

ONE  morning,  a  week  after  the  interview  men- 
tioned in  the  concluding  portion  of  the  last  chap- 
ter, our  two  young  men  met,  as  usual,  at  the  office 
of  Henry  Ware,  which  was  still  retained,  and  all 
the  appearances  of  studious  attention  to  business 
kept  up. 

"  You  look  grave,  Harry,"  remarked  his  friend, 
as  he  came  in. 

"  I  look  no  graver  than  I  feel,"  was  the  gloomy 
response. 

"  What  has  turned  up  now  1  Are  we  never  to 
be  done  with  these  cross  purposes  1" 

"  I  'm  afraid  not.  It  seems  as  if  the  old  Harry 
himself  had  turned  against  us.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  that  cursed  affair  in  Chestnut  street,  all  would 
have  gone  on  swimmingly.  But  that,  I  see  very 
plainly,  is  going  to  mar  the  whole  plot." 

"  Old  Martin  has  given  his  consent  to  an  early 
marriage." 

"So  he  has.    But—" 


T2  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  But  what  •!" 

"  Bell,  confound  her !  can 't  get  ready  for  two 
months  to  come !" 

»  The  devil !" 

"  Ain  't  it  too  bad  ?"  And  Ware  paced  the  floor 
\  of  his  office  with  hurried  steps,  his  countenance 
expressive  of  anger  and  disappointment.  "  Can't 
\  get  ready  for  two  months  !  Confound  it !  Why,  I 
could  get  ready  in  two  days,  and  so  could  she,  if 
it  were  not  for  some  romantic  notion  she  has  prob- 
ably got  into  her  head.  They  're  all  a  set  of  silly 
fools  any  how !" 

"  You'll  soon  take  the  romance  out  of  her,  if 
you  ever  get  a  chance  !" 

"Won't  17  She'll  not  have  much  left,  six 
months  after  we  're  married,  if  that  event  ever 
takes  place." 

"  Not  for  two  months,  you  say  1" 

"  No." 

"  Too  bad  !  Too  bad  !  But  can  't  you  change 
her  resolution?" 

"  No.  I  tried  last  evening,  as  far  as  I  could.  But 
it  was  no  use.  She  says  that  she  cannot  possibly 
'»  be  ready  before  the  middle  of  May." 

"  That  trial  will  come  up  on  the  first." 

"  So  Blackstone  says." 

"  What  then  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  That  is  a  question  easy  to  ask,  but  difficult  to 
answer.  I  see  no  chance  of  escape  from  the 
dilemma." 

"  I  can  tell  you  of  one  way  that  occurs  to  me  at 
this  moment." 

"  Name  it,  then,  for  Heaven's  sake  !" 

"Absent  yourself  from  the  city  on  the  day  the 
case  is  called.  It  will  then  have  to  go  on  without 
you,  or  be  postponed,  so  that  you  will  have  time 
to  get  married  before  it  again  comes  up." 

"  The  very  thing !"  ejaculated  Ware,  striking 


IN   DIFFICULTY    AGAIN.  if 

his  fist  with  his  open  hand,  his  whole  countenance 
brightening  up.  "It's  the  very  thing,  Tom!  And 
I  '11  do  it." 

"  There  will  then  only  remain  one  danger." 

"What  is  that'.'" 

"  Your  name  will  be  called  as  a  witness.  Should 
any  one  there,  who  knows  Bell's  father,  inform 
him  of  the  fact,  the  jig  will  be  up  for  you  as  effec- 
tually as  if  you  had  made  your  appearance." 

"  True — true,"  and  the  countenance  of  Ware 
again  fell. 

"And  the  danger  would  be  greatly  increased, 
were  the  names  of  the  witnesses  published,  which 
will  in  all  probability  be  the  case." 

"  Still  it  is  the  only  course  that  promises  any 
thing." 

"  It  is ;  and  therefore  the  only  course  you  can 
take." 

"  Do  you  intend  remaining,  Tom?' 

"  I  havn  't  made  up  my  mind  yet." 

"  You  had  better  go  also." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  As  we  are  the  two  principal  witnesses  on  the 
part  of  the  prosecution,  our  absence  will  make  it 
absolutely  necessary  to  postpone  the  trial  to 
another  term.  If  that  can  be  done,  I  am  safe." 

"  That  is  true  again.    I  will  go." 

"  Now  I  begin  to  see  a  little  daylight  ahead," 
remarked  Ware  in  a  more  cheerful  tone.  "  We  '11 
outwit  Mr.  Attorney  General  in  spite  of  his  teeth." 

"  Mr.  Ware,  I  believe,"  said  an  individual,  enter 
ing  at  the  moment 

"  My  name,"  was  the  half  haughty  reply,  for  the 
individual  who  addressed  him,  had  not,  to  his  eye, 
the  appearance  of  a  gentleman. 

"You  are  required  to  appear  and  give  bail  to 
the  amount  of  four  thousand  dollars  as  a  witness 

in  the  case  of  the  State  vs.  P ,"  was  the  mo- 

7 


T4  BELL    MARTIN. 

notorious  response  of  the  visiter,  who  added  in 
a  moment  afterwards,  "  The  bail  is  required  by 
twelve  o'clock  this  morning,1' — and  then  with- 
drew. 

Neither  of  the  ypung  men  spoke  for  nearly  five 
minutes  after  the  officer  retired.  At  length  Ware 
said,  in  a  low  but  firm  tone  : 

"  It 's  all  over,  Tom !  The  fates  are  against  me. 
I  might  as  well  give  up  at  once.  But  it  is  hard, 
devilish  hard !  after  all  the  trouble  I  have  taken, 
thus  to  have  the  cup  dashed  to  the  earth,  at  the 
moment  it  is  about  to  touch  my  lips !" 

"It  is  hard,  Harry.  But  you  must  bear  it  like 
a  man.  Something  yet  may  turn  up  in  your  fa- 
vor." 

"  I  have  ceased  to  look  for  it.  The  effort  to  get 
bail  will,  no  doubt,  lead  to  a  full  exposure  of  the 
whole  matter." 

"  Things  look  cloudy  enough,"  remarked  Harry, 
after  musing  for  some  time.  "  I  do  not  see  any 
way  of  escape." 

"There  is  none,  I  presume,"  Ware  gloomily 
replied.  "  Any  how,  I  shall  prepare  myself  for  the 
worst." 


CHAPTER  XI. 


A   FURTHER  PROSPECT. 

IT  was  just  eleven  o  clock  when  Henry  Ware 
received  the  notice  requiring  him  to  give  bail,  as 
mentioned  in  the  last  chapter,  and  at  twelve  that 
day  bail  had  to  be  produced.  The  unexpected 


A   FURTHER   PROSPECT.  75 

aspect  which  this  difficulty,  already  well  nigh  in- 
surmountable, had  assumed,  made  the  young  man 
feel  like  giving  up  all  further  efforts  at  compassing 

a  concealment  of  his  visit  to  P 's  establishment.          j 

After  a  long  silence,  in  which  his  own  mind,  and          > 
that  of  his  friend,  were  searching,  but  in  vain,  for 
some  new  expedient,  Handy  asked,  in  rather  a  \ 

desponding  tone, 

"  Can  you  think  of  nothing,  Harry?" 

"  Nothing,"  was  the  brief,  gloomy  response. 

"  Who  will  go  your  bail  1" 

"  Can  't  you  1"  'l 

"  Of  course  I  would  not  be  received,  in  conse- 
quence of  being  a  witness  myself.  Nor  am  I  at  all 
sure  that  a  similar  notice  to  yours  will  not  be 
served  on  me  before  the  next  hour." 

"  I  see  the  difficulty." 

"  But  you  must  have  bail." 

"  I  know  that  too  well.  And  yet,  I  can  think  of 
no  one  except  the  old  man.  But  it  will  never  do 
to  make  application  in  that  quarter." 

"  Can  't  you  humbug  him  into  it  in  some  way  ?" 

"  How  r 

"  I  don 't  know  exactly  how.  But  still,  may  it 
not  be  done  ?  Can 't  you  invent  a  plausible  story 
that  will  mislead  him  in  regard  to  the  real  facts  in 
the  case,  and  so  get  him  to  stand  by  you  1" 

"  That  might  lae  done,  though  I  do  not  exactly 
see  how." 

"  Has  he  given  any  attention  to  the  case  ?" 

"  Not  much,  I  believe.  When  the  affair  occurred, 
it  was  a  kind  of  three  days'  wonder  with  him,  as 
with  others.  Since  then,  I  presume,  he  has  scarce- 
ly thought  of  it." 

"  Suppose,  then,  you  trump  up  some  story  about 

your  knowledge  of  an  old  quarrel  between  P 

and ,  and  that  you  have  been  summoned  to 

testify  in  regard  to  that  1    Don 't  you  think  that 


76  BELL   MARTIN. 

you  might  come  it  over  him  in  some  such  style  as 
that  1" 

"  That 's  it  again  !"  ejaculated  Ware,  starting  to 
his  feet,  and  beginning  to  walk  about  his  office 
with  a  quick  step,  while  the  dark  shadow  that  had 
rested  upon  his  face,  was  quickly  dispersed  by  an 
exulting  smile.  "  You  are  certainly  rare  at  inven- 
tions. But  for  you,  I  never  could  have  got  along 
even  half  so  far  as  I  now  am,  in  this  most  per- 
plexing affair." 

"  You  think  it  can  be  done  without  difficulty  ?" 

"  O  yes.  He  '11  believe  any  well  told  tale  just 
now.  Sfill,  I  dread  to  approach  him  on  the  sub- 
ject, for  fear  that  something  in  my  countenance 
or  tone  of  voice  may  betray  me.  There  is  so 
much  at  stake,  and  I  feel  so  deeply  on  the  subject, 
that  I  am  beginning  to  lose  the  calm  assurance 
that  has  thus  far  stood  me  such  good  service." 

"  How  would  it  do  for  me  to  go  to  him "!" 

"I  am  sure  I  do  not  know.  He  would  very 
naturally  wish  to  know  why  I  did  not  see  him 
myself." 

"  Of  course  he  would.  But  I  can  manage  him 
well  enough  in  regard  to  that.  The  last  interview 
I  had  with  the  old  codger  gave  me  a  clue  to  his 
character.  I  read  him  like  a  book,  then,  and  know 
him  now  from  A.  to  Z." 

"  If  you  are  perfectly  willing  to  go,  Tom,  I  shall 
be  glad  enough  to  have  you  do  so,  and  am  satis- 
fied to  trust  the  matter  to  your  sound  judgment. 
But  time  presses.  I  must  be  at  the  Court ^House 
in  less  than  an  hour,  or  there  will  be  the  devil  to 
pay." 

Ten  minutes  after,  young  Handy  entered  the 
store  of  Mr.  Ware,  with  a  manner  perfectly  calm 
and  assured,  while  there  sat  upon  his  countenance 
an  expression  of  concern,  not  deep,  but  clearly 
defined,  and  not  to  be  mistaken. 


A   FURTHER  PROSPECT.  77 

"  Ah,  good  morning,  Thomas—  I  am  pleased  to 
see  you,"  said  Mr.  Ware,  encouragingly.  "  Walk 
back  into  the  counting-room." 

Handy  followed  the  old  gentleman  into  his 
counting-room,  the  door  of  which  Mr.  Ware  closed 
after  him,  purposely,  in  order  that  their  conversa- 
tion might  be  private.  The  coming  in  of  Handy 
made  him  think  of  his  son,  and  he  felt  desirous  of 
conversing  more  in  regard  to  him,  with  one  who 
was  on  such  intimate  terms  with,  and  seemed  to 
take  so  deep  an  interest  in  him. 

"  Well,  Thomas,"  he  said,  in  a  cheerful  tone, 
after  they  were  seated,  "  what  news  is  stirring  in 
your  way  ?" 

"Nothing  of  consequence,  except"  -  and  then 
he  hesitated  and  looked  a  little  grave. 

"  Except  what,  Thomas  ]"  asked  Mr.  Ware,  ex- 
hibiting some  little  concern  of  manner. 

"To  be  plain,  honest  and  frank  with  you  at 
once,  Mr.  Ware,  a  course  that  I  always  like  to 
pursue,  I  have  come  in  this  morning  to  see  you 
about  an  annoying  circumstance  that  has  occur- 
red to  Henry." 

"  To  Henry  1"  said  the  old  man,  with  anxiety. 
"  What  of  him,  Thomas  !" 

"  Oh  !  it  's  nothing  at  which  to  be  alarmed. 
In  fact,  it  is  nothing  but  a  little  matter  of  annoy- 
ance to  him." 

"  Speak  out  plainly  and  to  the  point,  my  young 
friend,"  Mr.  Ware  now  said,  in  a  firm,  decided 
tone. 

"It  is,  in  fact,"  resumed  Handy,  "only  one  of 
the  results  of  former  imprudent  associations.  Our 
sins  often  visit  us  with  penalties,  after  our  earnest 
repentance,  and  repudiation  of  them." 

"Speak  plainly,  Mr.  Handy." 

"  I  will,  sir.  It  is  now  nearly  a  year  since  Hen- 
ry and  myself  were  induced,  among  other  indis- 


78  BELL   MARTIN. 

cretions,  to  visit  P 's  gambling  rooms,  and  en- 
gage in  play.  Three  months'  experience,  howev- 
er, completely  cured  us  of  our  folly.  During  that 
time  both  Henry  and  myself  became  acquainted 

with  P ,  and  also  with  several  regular  visiters 

at  his  establishment.  Among  these,  was  an  ill- 
conditioned,  quarrelsome  individual.  One  night 

a  dispute  arose  between  him  and  P ,  when  a 

brief  rencontre  ensued,  in  which  he  was  severely 
beaten.  Henry  and  myself  were  both  present, 
and  saw  the  whole  affair.  Ever  since  that  time, 
it  appears,  that  this  individual  held  a  grudge 
against  P ,  and  has,  I  am  told,  frequently  in- 
sulted him  with  the  intention  of  drawing  him  into 
another  fight.  A  few  weeks  ago,  as  you  will 
remember,  he  quarrelled  with  P ,  and  was  kill- 
ed. Now,  some  one  has  informed  Blackstone, 
the  Attorney  General,  that  we  were  present  at 
the  former  affray,  and  he  has  summoned  us  both 
to  appear  as  witnesses  in  the  case.  But  what  he 
wants  us  to  prove,  is  more  than  I  can  figure 
out." 

"  Is  that  all  1"  said  Mr.  Ware,  breathing  more 
freely. 

"  That  is  the  whole  merit  of  the  case— but  it  is 
not  all  that  troubles  Henry's  mind." 

•'What  does  trouble  his  mind1?" 

"  The  fact  that  he  has  been  required  to  give  bail 
for  his  attendance  as  a  witness." 

"  Why  has  that  course  been  pursued  ]"  asked 
Mr.  Ware,  gravely. 

"  I  must  explain  a  little  to  make  that  matter 
clear  to  you.  When  Henry  first  learned  that  the 
Court  required  his  attendance,  he  went  to  the 
State's  Attorney,  in  the  hope  that  he  could  induce 
him  to  leave  his  name  off,  stating  to  him,  frankly, 
that  his  presence  in  such  a  place  was  at  a  time 
when  he  had  suffered  himself  to  be  led  away  into 


A   FURTHER   PROSPECT.  79 

irregular  habits,  by  injudicious  association,  and 
that  he  had  very  particular  reasons  for  wishing 
this  fact  not  to  see  the  light,  as  he  feared  that  it 
would  now  lead  to  a  false  judgment  in  regard  to 
him  in  quarters  where  it  was  of  the  utmost  mo- 
ment that  he  should  be  thought  of  favorably.  But 
Mr.  Blackstone  could  not  be  induced  to  waive  his 
evidence.  At  a  subsequent  interview,  when  he 
had  fixed  in  his  own  mind  about  the  first  of  May 
as  the  day  of  his  marriage,  he  mentioned  to  Mr. 
Blackstone  that  he  expected  to  be  unavoidably 
absent  from  the  city,  at  the  time  the  case  would 
be  called.  To  prevent  this,  he  has  been  required 
to  furnish  bail." 

"  Why  did  he  not  himself  mention  this  to  me, 
Thomas  ?"  asked  Mr.  Ware. 

"  I  urged  him  very  much  to  do  so,"  was  thecooi 
reply.  "  But  he  said  that  lie  was  so  much  troubled 
and  mortified  in  regard  to  it,  that  he  felt  sure, 
that,  in  making  it  known  to  you,  he  would  be  lia- 
ble to  misapprehension,  and  be  judged  more  se- 
verely than  he  deserved.  I  do  really  feel  sorry 
for  him— he  takes  the  whole  thing  so  hard.  And 
it  does  seem  hard  when  a  young  man  is  trying 
his  best  to  do  right,  that  the  consequences  of  old 
indiscretions  should  visit  him,  and  threaten  dis- 
grace and  injury." 

"  What  amount  of  bail  is  required?"  asked  the 
old  gentleman,  in  a  thoughtful  tone,  after  Handy 
had  ceased  speaking. 

"  Four  thousand  dollars.' 

"  Four  thousand  dollars  !" 

"Yes— a  most  exorbitant  bail.  And  it  is  the 
fact  of  such  a  lar^e  security  having  been  requir- 
ed, that  troubles  Henry  so  much,  though  I  tell  him 
that  it  does  not  reflect  upon  him,  but  upon  tli3 
party  who  stands  the  prosecution." 

"Certainly  it  does  not  reflect  upon  him.  It  only 


80  BELL   MARTIN. 

shows  that  his  evidence  is  considered  of  great  im- 
portance, and  that  a  strong  barrier  is  to  be  put  in 
the  way  of  his  absenting  himself  at  the  time  of  the 
trial.  Of  course  I  must  go  his  bail,  and  it  might 
as  well  be  done  at  once.  Will  you  go  with  me  to 
the  Court-room  ?" 

"  O,  certainly,  sir  !  Certainly  !"  was  Handy's 
ready  and  pleased  response,  as  he  rose  from  his 
chair.  In  a  few  moments  after,  he  left  the  store, 
and,  in  company  with  old  Mr.  Ware,  took  his  way 
to  the  State  House. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


OFFICIAL    INTEGRITY. 

"  I  HAVE  passed  safely  another  dangerous  strait, 
with  rocks  and  reefs  on  every  side,"  said  Ware  to 
his  friend,  the  next  day,  as  they  sat  conferring  in 
regard  to  some  future  course  of  action.  "  With  such 
a  pilot  as  your  very  excellent  self  at  the  helm,  I 
begin  to  feel  as  if  I  shall  yet  gain  the  desired 
haven." 

"  The  devil  is  good  to  his  own,  you  know,  Har- 
ry. We  must  put  our  trust  in  him,  and  I  doubt 
not  but  that  he  will  be  true  to  the  end." 

"  So  I  begin  to  feel.  Still,  doubt  and  uncertain- 
ty hang  darkly  over  the  future." 

"  So  did  it  yesterday,  in  regard  to  bail.  Yet, 
when  the  effort  was  once  made,  how  the  difficulty 
vanished,  like  smoke !" 

"  But  the  Attorney  General  is  not  to  be  hum- 
bugged quite  so  easily  as  my  old  man.  I  'm  sadly 
afraid  that  nothing  can  be  made  out  of  him— that 


OFFICIAL    INTEGRITY. 

he  will  go  on  his  own  course,  steadily,  in  spite  of 
all  we  may  do  or  say." 

"  That  is  to  be  feared.  Still,  past  success  is  to 
me  an  earnest  that  we  shall  overcome  every  diffi- 
culty." 

With  this  feeling,  our  young  men  saw  day  after 
day  go  by,  and  week  after  week,  until  the  thirtieth 
day  of  April  came,  and  yet  no  change  had  occur- 
red in  the  aspect  of  a  single  dark  feature  of 
Ware's  prospects.  On  the  first  of  May  opened  a 
term  of  the  Criminal  Court,  when,  in  all  probabil- 
ity, the  case  of  the  State  vs.  P would  be  call- 
ed. It  was  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  that 
Ware,  with  an  anxious  and  troubled  countenance, 
called  at  the  residence  of  Mr.  Blackstone,  and 
asked  an  interview,  which  was  accorded  to  him. 

"  I  have  come,  Mr.  Blackstone,"  he  said,  with  a 
good  deal  of  embarrassment  in  his  manner,  yet  in 
a  tone  of  earnestness,  arising  almost  to  entreaty, 
"  to  see  if  I  cannot,  in  some  way,  prevail  on  you 
to  pass  me  over  in  your  call  for  witnesses  in  the 
case  of  which  I  have  before  spoken  to  you." 

"It  is  impossible,  Mr.  Ware.  You  cannot  be 
set  aside,"  was  the  firm  reply  of  the  Attorney 
Genera1.  "  Your  evidence  is  of  the  first  impor- 
tance." 

"  Biu  Mr.  Handy  will  prove  every  thing  that  I 
can.  He  saw  the  whole  affair." 

"  I  have  before  explained  to  you,  Mr.  Ware," 
said  the  Attorney  General,  "precisely  my  view  of 
the  importance  of  your  evidence,  and  also  my  view 
in  regird  to  my  own  position  as  prosecuting  At- 
torney for  the  State.  Since  then,  I  have  seen  no 
reason  for  changing  my  opinion,  and  must,  there- 
fore, adhere  to  my  original  design  of  calling  you 
upon  the  stand." 

To  this,  Ware  did  not  reply  for  some  moments, 
when  he  said  with  bitterness — 


82  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  From  the  moment  I  appear  upon  that  stand, 
Mr.  Blackstone,  I  may  date  the  utter  ruin  of  my 
hopes:  for  it  will  throw  over  my  character  a  shade 
of  suspicion,  which  no  explanations,  if,  indeed,  I 
shall  be  allowed  the  privilege  of  making  any,  can 
remove.  The  twentieth  of  this  month  is  the  day 
fixed  for  my  marriage  with  Bell  Martin,  and  if 
this  thing  transpires  before  that  day,  her  father 
will,  I  am  fully  persuaded,  come  forward  with  a 
positive  interdiction." 

"On  the  twentieth  did  you  say?"  asked  the 
Attorney. 

"  Yes,  on  the  twentieth." 

Then  there  was  a  long  pause,  which  was  at 
'ength  broken  by  Mr.  Blackstone,  who  said — • 

"  Come  and  see  me  to-morrow  evening,  Mr. 
Ware.  In  the  mean  time,  I  will  give  this  matter 
all  the  thought  I  possibly  can." 

With  this  assurance,  the  young  man  withdrew. 

"  Here  is  a  matter  in  which  I  feel  somewhat  at 
a  loss  how  to  act,"  mused  the  attorney,  after  he 
was  alone.  "  If  the  marriage  of  this  young  man  is 
to  take  place  as  early  as  the  twentieth,  I  can  easily 
keep  the  case  back  until  that  affair  is  all  settled  to 
his  satisfaction.  But  will  it  be  right  for  me  to  do 
so?  That  is  the  question.  May  not  justice  to  all 
parties,  and  more  especially  to  Miss  Martin  and 
her  family,  require  that  this  trial  should  be  per- 
mitted to  come  on  in  the  natural  order  of  things  ? 
If  it  make  any  developments  in  regard  to  young 
Ware  that  are  discreditable  to  him,  it  is  far  better 
that  they  should  know  it  before  his  marriage  than 
afterwards.  And,  more  than  that,  it  is,  to  my  mind, 
very  questionable,  indeed,  whether  I  have  any 
right,  from  private  or  individual  considerations,  to 
interfere,  even  in  the  slightest  degree,  with  the 
regular  and  orderly  progress  and  succession  of 
public  business.  Certainly  such  an  act  would  be 


OFFICIAL   INTEGRITY. 

of  very  doubtful  character,  and  I  cannot  think  that 
I  would  be  right  in  deviating  from  my  official  du- 
ties from  a  regard  to  any  individual's  feelings, 
prospects  or  interests." 

Such  were  the  views  which  a  good  deal  of  re- 
flection had  measurably  confirmed  in  the  mind  of 
Mr.  Blackstone,  when  Henry  Ware  called  in  to 
see  him  on  the  next  evening. 

"  Has  any  way  occurred  to  you,  in  which  it  will 
be  in  your  power  to  screen  me  in  the  coming  trial  1" 
asked  the  young  man,  with  a  look  and  a  tone  of 
concern,  as  soon  as  he  was  seated. 

"  But  one  way  has  occurred.  Yet  I  do  not  feel 
at  liberty  to  adopt  it,"  replied  Mr.  Blackstone. 

"  Why  not  1" 

"Because  it  would  be  a  private  interference 
with  the  orderly  course  of  public  business.  And 
that,  it  seems  to  me,  no  Judicial  functionary  has  a 
right  to  make." 

"  To  what  do  you  allude  ?" 

"  As  your  marriage  is  to  take  place  on  the 
twentieth,  it  would  be  a  very  easy  matter  to  let 
other  cases  (which  come  after  this  one  on  the 
docket)  precede  it,  so  that  you  need  not  make 
your  appearance  here  until  after  that  date." 

"  The  very  thing  that  I  intended  suggesting  to 
you  this  evening.  Surely,  that  can  be  done  with- 
out compromising,  in  any  sense,  either  justice  or 
principle." 

"  Not  as  I  view  the  subject." 

"  How  so  7" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Mr.  Ware,  that  you  will  ap- 
preciate my  views,  especially  at  this  time.  How- 
ever, I  will  give  them.  As  a  public  officer,  I  ought 
not  to  regard  any  man's  private  relations  in  socie- 
ty, so  much  as  to  make  them  supersede  or  stay  the 
regular  operations  of  justice.  Yours  is  a  case  in 
point.  You  wish  me  to  put  off  a  certain  trial,  in 


BELL   MARTIN. 

which  you  are  to  appear  as  witness,  beyond  a 
specified  date,  in  order  that  the  disgrace,  or  what- 
ever you  may  call  it,  which  will  result  from  your 
so  appearing,  may  not  have  the  effect  of  prevent- 
ing your  marriage  with  an  heiress.  Now,  it  is 
clear  to  my  mind,  that  with  your  private  affairs 
I  have  nothing  to  do.  My  business  is  to  prosecute 
offences  against  the  State,  according  to  the  legal 
forms." 

"  But  my  dear  sir,"  broke  in  Ware,  "  what 
possible  detriment  can  the  State  suffer,  by  the 
postponement  of  a  prosecution  for  a  few  days? 
Are  not  postponements  affairs  of  constant  occur- 
rence ]" 

"  True.  But  they  are  all  governed  by  legal 
considerations.  As  for  instance,  the  alleged  ab- 
sence of  an  important  witness,  or  other  inabilities 
on  the  part  of  either  the  prosecution  or  defence, 
to  meet  the  questions  at  issue.  But  your  case  is 
one  that  has  relation  to  private  matters,  and  those 
alone,  and  cannot  be  admitted  as  a  reason  for 
postponement." 

"I  cannot,  Mr.  Blackstone,  appreciate  the  dis- 
tinction you  make." 

"  I  did  not  suppose  that  you  could,  Mr.  Ware, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  it  has  reference  to  a 
matter  which  deeply  concerns  you,  personally.  As 
regards  myself,  I  stand  on  different  ground,  and 
can  look  at  the  subject  in  a  very  different  aspect. 
I  view  it  abstracted  from  all  personal  interest,  as 
a  matter  of  simple  right." 

"  Surely  you  cannot  call  it  right,  to  blast,  with- 
out provocation,  without  any  adequate  reason  for 
doing  so,  the  prospects  of  a  man  who  never  injur- 
ed you." 

"  Mr.  Ware,"  said  the  attorney,  in  a  firm  and 
decided  tone,  while  he  looked  him  steadily  and 
somewhat  sternly  in  the  face,  "  when  I  accepted 


OFFICIAL   INTEGRITY.  85 

my  present  office,  it  was  with  the  solenjn  determi- 
nation to  know  no  man,  personally,  while  engaged 
ia  the  discharge  of  its  duties.  Were  you  my 
brother,  sir,  I  would  act  as  I  am  now  doing.  And, 
let  me  say  to  you,  that  the  more  I  reflect  upon  this 
matter,  the  more  deep  is  my  conviction  that  I  ought 
not  to  deviate  from  the  course  I  have  declared,  in 
this  case  above  all  that  have  ever  come  under  my 
notice.  If  you  were  in  improper  company,  that 
was,  I  presume,  the  result  of  loose  habits  and  a 
love  for  improper  associates.  In  the  course  of 
events,  this  fact  has  come  out,  or  is  about  to  come 
out.  just  as  you  are  preparing  to  marry  a  young 
and  innocent  maiden.  Its  exposure,  you  fear,  will 
cause  a  dissolution  of  your  engagement.  If  I 
understand  you  right,  you  are  deceiving  both  the 
maiden  and  her  parents  in  regard  to  your  real 
character,  which,  if  known,  would  cause  them  to 
reject  you  at  once.  And  shall  I,  as  a  lover  of 
justice,  as  a  good  citizen,  as  a  father,  screen  you  in 
my  official  capacity  1  No,  sir  !  I  would  resign 
rny  office  before  I  would  betray  the  sacred  trust 
placed  in  my  hands  !" 

"  You  do  me  injustice,"  urged  the  young  man. 
"  I  am  not  in  association  with  gamblers,  as  you 
infer.  In  a  thoughtless  moment,  I  was  induced, 

by  a  friend,  to  go  into  P 's  rooms,  and  while 

there,  consent  to  play  a  game  or  two  with  my 
fi-iend  and  a  stranger,  which  stranger  proved  to  be 

P himself.     Fifteen  minutes  only  had  elapsed 

before  the  quarrel  took  place.  Thus,  you  see,  that 
nn  undeserved  odium  will  attach  to  my  name 
from  this  one  indiscreet  act." 

"  You  must  take  the  consequences  of  your  own 
conduct,  Mr.  Ware.  If  your  statement  can  be  '\ 

substantiated  to  Miss  Martin's  friends,  no  difficul- 
ty, I  presume,  will  occur." 


"  You  will  not,  then,  stay  proceedings  in  the 

ase  1" 

"  No,'sir ;  not  a  day." 

"  When  do  you  think  it  will  be  reached  ?" 

"  In  two  or  three  days,  at  the  farthest." 

With  this  decisive  information,  Ware  arose, 
and  bowing  to  Mr.  Blackstone,  in  silence,  with- 
drew. 

The  next  morning  brought  the  two  young  men 
together,  whose  sayings  and  doings  have  occu- 
pied, thus  far,  so  much  of  the  reader's  attention. 

"  Did  you  see  Blackstone,  last  evening  1"  asked 
Handy,  as  they  met. 

"  Yes,  and  had  my  labor  for  my  pains." 

"  Would  n't  he  put  off  the  trial  1" 

"No — not  a  day." 

"  Was  he  positive  1" 

"  Yes.  He  said  that  he  would  n't  put  it  off  if 
his  own  brother  stood  in  my  place." 

"  Of  course  not !  But  who  believes  him ! 
Not  I." 

;  It  seems  as  if  the  very  fates  were  against  me," 


said  Ware,  in  a  gloomy  tone. 
"  Do  n't  despair.   I  think  I  'v 


:  Ve  hit  the  right  thing 
at  last." 

"  How  ?  What  is  it  1  Speak  out,  and  let  me 
hear  at  once."  This  was  said  in  a  quick,  excited 
tone. 

"Hear,  and  judge  for  yourself.  I  went  last 

night  to  see  P ,  against  whom,  you  know,  this 

prosecution  is  got  up.  After  sounding  him  pretty 
thoroughly,  I  found  that,  for  a  consideration — you 
know  he  goes  in  for  that,  and,  what  is  more,  is  as 
k<vn  for  the  rhino  now  as  he  was  before  the  axe 
of  justice  hung  suspended  over  his  head — that,  for 
a  consideration,  he  would  cause  his  lawyer  to  have 
the  trial  put  off,  on  the  plea  of  not  being  ready. 
until  after  the  twentieth." 


THE   TWO   BRIDES.  87 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  T'  asked  Ware  eagerly, 
his  whole  expression  and  manner  changing. 

"O  yes.  He  can  be  bought  ovei  to  do  anything.          \ 
\         And  this  is  a  matter  that  will  cost  him  neither  risk          \ 
nor  labor." 

"  Will  he  take  a  '  promise  to  pay  V  " 

"  O  yes.    He  will  consider  it  a  debt  of  honor,          \ 
you  know." 

"  Precisely.    Go  then,  Tom,  see  him  at  once, 
and  make  sure  of  him  at  any  price.     When  the 
>          arrangement  is  completed,  just  let  me  know  the 
i         amount,  and  I  will  fork  over  my  due  bill  in  a  little          \ 
less  than  no  time  at  all.    It 's  all  safe  now,  I  can 
see.    Hurrah  !" 

"  H-u-s-h,  Harry !  do  n't  go  into  spasmodics," 
was  the  reply  of  Tom  Handy,  as  he  turned  to  the          ? 
door,  on  his  prompt  errand  to  the  gambler. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THB   TWO   BRIDES. 

ON  the  evening  of  the  twentieth  of  May,  18- 
an  interview  of  touching  interest  occurred  in  one 
of  the  chambers  of  Mr.  Martin's  elegant  mansion 

$  — an  interview  never  forgotten  by  the  two  who 
alone  were  its  participants.  Those  two  were  Bell 
Martin  and  the  gentle,  pure-minded,  affectionate 
Mary,  before  introduced  to  the  reader.  Both  were 

/  to  become  brides  on  that  evening ;  but  under  what 
different  external  circumstances.  A  large  and 
brilliant  company  had  already  begun  to  assemble 
in  honor  of  the  one,  while  the  other  was  waiting 
the  arrival  of  her  humble  lover,  to  convey  her, 


i  .. 


88  BELL   MARTIN. 

a.one  with  himself,  in  Mr.  Martin's  family  carri 
age,  to  the  minister's,  from  whence  she  was  to  be          \ 
taken   to  a   small   house,   which   Mr.  Lane  had          > 
furnished  neatly  and  modestly,  and  there  to  be  in-          '', 
t  reduced  as  its  mistress.  One  was  arrayed  in  rich          <• 
and  attractive  garments,  and  adorned  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  jewels— while  the  other  had  on  a  simple 
dress  of  pure  white,  and,  as  an  ornament,  a  single          £ 
rose,  half  concealed  beneath  the  folds  of  her  glossy 
hair.     The  one  instantly  attracted  the  eye,  and 
awoke  a  sentiment  of  admiration  ;  while  the  unob- 
trusive innocence  and  native  gracefulness  of  the          f, 
other,  touched  the  heart  with  a  feeling  of  tender-          •: 
ness  and  interest.     The  fancy  of  Bell  was  full  of 
undefined  but  pleasing  images,  and  her  eyes  bright 
and  sparkling.     Mary   had,   on  the   contrary,   a 
thoughtful,  sad  and  subdued  look,  while  her  eyes 
swam  in  moisture,  and  the  tears  seemed  ready  at 
every  moment   to  spring  forth  upon  her  cheek. 
The  tender  interest  which  was  felt  for  Bell  by  the 
latter,  would  not  permit  any  one  else  to  array  her 
for  the  bridal  occasion,  even  though  her  own  mar- 
riage was  to  take  place  on  the  same  evening.    She 
felt  it  to  be  her  last  sad  privilege  to  render  this 
service,  at  the  period  when  their  paths,  which  had 
long  run  side  by  side  through  pleasant  and  flow- 
ery scenes,  were  about  diverging  ;  and  thus  feel- 
ing, she  claimed  the  privilege. 

The  scene  of  busy  preparation  at  last  over,  with 
the  degree  of  interest  which  had  prevented  a  free 
interchange  of  affectionate  parting  words  between 
the  two  maidens,  they  now  stood  looking  at  each 
other  with  feelings  of  warmer  affection  than  had 
ever  yet  swelledltheir  bosoms — but  the  love  of  the 
humble  maiden  was  deeper  and  tenderer  than  that 
of  her  companion. 

"  Dear  Bell !"  she  said,  laying  her  light  hand 
gently  upon  her,  and  looking  with  a  tearful  smile 


THE   TWO   BRIDES.  «J  £ 

in  her  face — "you  must  forgive  the  freedom  with 
which  I  address  you,  for  at  this  moment  you  seem 
so  dear  to  me,  as  if  you  were  my  own  sister — 
that  I  must  speak  as  I  feel.     Will  you  sometimes          ; 
think  of  me,  Bell!     I  leave  the  only  home  and  the          \ 
only  friends  I  have  ever  known  ;  and  even  though          f 
I  shall  go  to  one  who  loves  me  tenderly,  and  who 
has  my  heart's  first,  best,  purest  affections,  yet  I          \ 
shall  often  think  of  you,  and  sigh  for  the  home 
and  friends  of  my  early  and  happy  years." 

"  Think  of  you,  Mary  ]     Dear  Mary !     Sister          $ 
Mary,  I  should  rather  say,"  Bell  replied,  in  a  voice 
of  earnest  affection,  as  she  drew  her  arm  around          \ 
the  gentle  maiden.     "  How  can  I  ever  forget  the          \ 
self-sacrificing  companion  of  my  childhood  and 
maturer  years?     You  have  borne  to  me,  to  all          \ 
of  us,  Mary,  a  true  and  faithful  heart.     This  we 
have  ever  felt,  and  for  it  we  have  ever  loved  you. 
But  now,  as  we  are  about  separating,  I  feel  for 
you  a  purer  and  deeper  love.     You  are  as  my 
sister." 

"  For  you,"  replied  Mary,  "  I  have  long  felt  a 
like  tender  regard,  and  now,  that  a  new,  impor- 
tant and  momentous  change  is  about  taking  place 
in  our  histories,  that  feeling  toward  you  assumes 
a  hue  of  sadness  that  I  cannot  remove." 

"  Why  should  it  be  sad,  Mary  1    I  am  happy— 
and   before  me  is  a   brilliant  prospect.     Rather          < 
should  the  feeling  be  mine  for  you,  thus  rending          \ 
all  the  pleasant  ties  of  early  years — thus  leaving 
the  bosom  of  that  family  in  which  you  have  been          ', 
loved  and  cherished,  to  stand   up  alone  in   the 
world  beside  one,  who,  no  matter  how  tenderly  he 
may  love  you,  cannot  fill  every  place  in  a  wo- 
man's heart." 

"  All  that  I  feel,  Bell,"  was  Mary's  rep'y,  made 
in  a  tone  which  had  recovered  its  call  ^n°ss  "  But 
I  shall  be  happy,  perfectly  happy,  according  *o  the 


DO  BELL   MARTIN. 

measure  of  my  anticipations.    You,  I  fear,  will 
not." 

"  What  reason  have  you  for  so  fearing,  Mary  1" 

"I  have  no  brilliant  expectations— you  have. 
Rarely,  I  believe,  so  says  the  world's  eventful 
history,  are  such  expectations  realized.  If  not  in 
your  case,  then  will  come  unhappiness.  I  have 
thought  of  this  often  and  often,  when  I  have  heard 
your  expressions  of  delight  in  anticipation  of  com- 
ing joy,  and  often  have  I  felt  like  checking  them 
by  a  word.  To-night  I  cannot  help  doing  so.  O,' 
<;  then,  remember,  dear  Bell !  that  the  surest  way  to 
>  happiness,  is  to  expect  little  from  mere  external 
>/  things.  These  are  ever  changing  and  passing 
away.  And,  above  all,  let  me  urge  you  not  to 
look  for  unalloyed  pleasures  in  your  married  life. 
There  will  be— there  must  be  in  the  very  nature 
of  things — uncongenialities  between  your  husband 
and  yourself,  and  if  I  have  formed  of  man's  char 
acter  a  true  idea,  the  wife  will  have  much  to  learn 
in  the  way  of  submission.  This  lesson  will  be 
harder  for  you  than  for  me." 

"  Why  harder,  Mary  ?" 

"  For  this  reason.  Both  Mr.  Lane  and  myself 
have,  thus  far  in  life,  moved  in  subordinate  posi- 
tions, and  have  been  in  the  daily  habit  of  submit- 
ting our  wills  to  others — of  preferring  others  to 
ourselves.  Less,  then,  will  be  required  of  me  in 
the  way  of  submission  to  his  will,  and  what  is  re- 
quired will  cheerfully  be  given.  But  your  case  is 
different.  Neither  Mr.  Ware  nor  yourself  know 
much  about  this  yielding  to  others.  He  will,  as  a 
man,  from  the  confirmed  habit  of  having  his  own 
way  in  almost  every  thing,  expect  you  to  yield 
nearly  every  point  of  difference  to  him.  This  you 
will  find  a  hard  lesson,  indeed,  to  learn  ;  and  it  will, 
unless  you  guard  and  deny  yourself  very  much, 
be  the  fruitful  source  of  unhappiness." 


THE   TWO   BRIDES.  91 

"  Why  do  you  talk  so  strangely  to  me,  at  this 
time,  Mary?"  asked  Bell,  in  a  half-offended  tone. 

"  Because  I  love  you,"  was  the  quick  reply  of 
Mary,  as  she  leaned  her  head  upon  the  shoulder 
of  Bell,  and  gave  way  to  tears.  The  tone  and 
words  of  the  latter  had  wounded  her  feelings. 

"  Forgive  me,  Mary,"  said  Bell,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, "  for  the  unkind  manner  in  which  I  spoke. 
Your  words  seemed  like  a  reflection  upon  Henry, 
a.nd  that,  with  my  present  feelings  toward  him,  I 
cannot  bear." 

"  Mary,  you  are  waited  for,"  said  a  servant, 
opening  the  chamber  door. 

"  Say  that  I  will  be  ready  in  a  few  moments," 
replied  Mary,  and  then  the  servant  withdrew. 

"  And  so  the  time  has  come,  at  last,  for  our  part- 
ing," was  the  remark  of  Bell,  in  a  tender  and  sub- 
dued voice,  after  they  were  again  alone.  "I  shall 
miss  you  every  day,  and  every  hour,  Mary — and 
so  will  every  one  in  this  house.  What  you  have 
just  said,  comes  back  upon  me  now,  and  it 
may  be  too  true.  If  so,  your  way,  humble  and 
unseen  though  it  be,  will  be  a  happier  one  than 
mine." 

"  With  a  sincere  heart,  fervently  do  I  pray,  Bell, 
that  no  shadow  may  ever  fall  upon  you — that  your 
path  ma)'  be  amid  sunshine  and  flowers.  But, 
should  this  not  be  the  case — should  it  so  happen, 
in  the  mysterious  permission  of  Divine  Provi- 
dence, that,  in  some  future  time,  your  pillow  be- 
come a  thorny  one — that  even  a  single  sorrow 
press  upon  your  heart,  let  it  be  my  privilege  to 
spoak  to  you,  if  I  can  do  no  more,  words  of  com- 
fort— to  pillow  your  head  upon  my  bosom.  If  no 
other  heart  remain  true  to  its  first  love  for  you, 
mine  will  still  pour  out  its  treasures  of  affection 
and  be  blest  in  giving." 

Silently,    and    with    full   hearts,  did  the  two 


J 


92  BELL   MARTIN. 

maidens  then  fold  each  other  in  their  arms. 
When,  at  last,  this  earnest  embrace  was  over, 
tears  were  on  the  cheeks  of  both.  Then  came  a 
long,  fond  gaze  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  an 
earnest  grasping  of  the  hands. 

"  Farewell,  Bell" — 

"  Farewell.  Mary" — 

•:  were  uttered  with  choking  voices.  In  the  next 
minute  Bell  stood  alone  in  her  chamber,  and 
Mary's  hand  was  in  that  of  her  lover. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

BLIGHTED   HOPES. 


WE  must  now  pass  over  the  events  of  five 
years,  and  introduce  our  characters  at  the  end  of 
that  period.  It  is  unnecessary  to  tell  the  reader, 
that  the  marriage  of  Bell  Martin  has  been  an  un- 
happy one.  Scarcely  a  week  elapsed,  before  some 
act  or  word  from  her  husband  had  chilled  the 
warm  current  of  joyous  affection  that  was  gush- 
ing out  toward  him.  How  could  it  be  otherwise? 
She,  young,  innocent  and  confiding,  with  her  wo- 
man's heart  full  of  tenderness  and  truth— and  he, 
all  uninfluenced  by  a  feeling  or  a  principle  that 
was  not  purely  selfish.  The  coldness  with  which 
he  received,  from  the  very  first,  her  acts  of  exu- 
berant fondness,  that  were  but  the  natural  ex- 
pressions of  the  love  she  felt  for  him,  soon  taught 
her  one  of  the  hardest  lessons  a  young  wife  has  to 
learn;  and  many  months  had  not  passed  away 
before  this  lesson,  if  forgotten  in  a  moment  of 
warmer  feelings,  was  enforced  by  words. 


BLIGHTED   HOPES. 


93 


It  is  not  often  that  the  young  wife,  even  when 
regarded  with  the  deepest  and  purest  affection, 
finds  that  affection  manifested  toward  her  in  what 
her  heart  recognizes  as  its  true  expression.  JN'or 
does  she  ever,  or,  at  least,  but  rarely  indeed,  meet 
that  warm  reciprocation  in  word  and  act,  for 
which  her  heart  yearns.  This  is  the  natural  con- 
sequence of  differences  in  mental  conformation. 
But  where  the  affection  that  exists  is  a  genuine 
one,  the  husband  gradually  learns  to  manifest 
more  in  word  and  act  the  love  he  feels,  and  the 
wife  to  perceive  far  more  in  a  look  or  word,  or 
tone,  or  action,  than  she  did  in  the  first  months, 
or  years  of  wedded  life.  But,  alas  !  Where,  as 
in  the  case  of  Bell,  not  the  first  pure  emotion  of 
love  has  even  stirred  the  icy  surface  of  a  hus- 
band's feelings,  how  sad  must  be  the  condition  of 
a  wife ! 

The  coldness  that  soon  manifested  itself  in  her 
case,  was  followed  by  neglect,  and  a  seeming,  as 
it  was  a  real,  indifference  toward  ^er.  This  came 
earlier,  from  the  fact,  that  the  revelations  on  the 
trial  of  P ,  the  gambler,  destroyed  Mr.  Mar- 
tin's confidence  in  Ware — though  it  did  not  weak- 
en Bell's  affection  for  her  husband.  Indeed,  she 
took  Henry's  own  version  of  the  matter  as  the 
true  one,  which  version  made  him  an  innocent 
victim  of  circumstances. 

Following  these  revelations,  came  the  open  and 
avowed  determination  of  the  young  man  not  to 
bind  himself  down  to  the  plodding  duties  of  a  pet- 
tifogging lawyer,  as  he  expressed  it;  accompanied 
by  requests  for  liberal  sums  of  money,  which  were 
refused.  Finding  that  Henry  had,  in  a  most 
heartless  and  cruel  manner,  deceived  them,  and 
that  he  was  now  disposed  to  act  out  his  real,  but, 
for  a  few  months,  concealed  character,  both  his 
own  father  and  the  father  of  Bell  felt  called  upon 


94 


BELL    MARTIN 


to  restrict  him  in  the  use  of  money,  to  the  end 
that  he  might  feel  compelled  to  apply  himself  to 
nis  profession. 

But  this  result  did  not  follow.  He  was  too 
deeply  and  thoroughly  corrupted,  and  had,  in  his 
friend  Thomas  Handy,  too  ready  a  prompter  to 
evil.  Money  he  wanted,  and  money  he  must 
have.  Through  the  influence  of  Bell  with  her 
mother,  and  by  taking  from  her  hands,  freely  giv- 
en it  is  true,  nearly  every  dollar  which  she  re- 
ceived for  her  own  use,  he  obtained  small  sup- 
plies. These  furnished  the  means  of  resort  to  the 
only  way  of  filling  his  purse  that  he  could  think 
of — the  gaming  table.  Of  course,  he  was,  for 
some  time,  a  constant  loser  in  the  main, — tempo- 
rary and  permitted  success,  being  followed,  sure- 
ly, by  the  entire  loss  of  his  little  capital,  and, 
very  frequently,  by  his  becoming  involved  in 
debts  of  honor,  to  pay  which  gave  him  no  little 
trouble. 

For  five  years  had  he  persevered  in  his  evil 
courses,  growing  all  the  while  more  and  more  in- 
Different,  or  openly  unkind  toward  his  wife.  Hav- 
ing no  further  cause  for  the  concealment  of  his 
real  character  and  feelings,  he  took  little  pains  to 
appear  what  he  was  not,  or  to  regulate  his  con- 
duct by  the  rule  of  appearances.  As  neither  his 
father  nor  the  father  of  Bell  would  support  the 
young  couple  in  an  establishment  of  their  own, 
and  for  the  very  best  of  reasons,  Ware  continued 
to  reside  with  his  wife  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Martin. 
But  even  this  constant  mingling  with  her  family, 
failed  to  influence  his  conduct  toward  her.  Rare- 
ly did  he  accompany  her  abroad,  and  never  did  he 
pretend  to  deny  himself  any  thing  for  her  sake, 
or  seem  to  feel  drawn  toward  home,  even  though 
two  pleasant  children  had  come  to  light  it  up  with 
their  sweet  smiles,  and  to  fill  it  with  the  music 


1 

BLIGHTED    HOPES.  05 

of  their  happy  voices.  Rarely  did  he  come  in  be- 
fore one,  two,  and  sometimes  three,  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  then,  frequently,  in  a  state  of  partial  in- 
toxication. Added  to  this,  he  had  grown,  of  late, 
abstracted  and  sullen  in  his  manner,  rarely  joining 
in  any  conversation  with  the  family,  and,  some- 
times, not  coming  home  for  two  or  three  days  at 
a  time,  and  then  much  under  the  influence  of 
liquor. 

One  day,  about  the  period  indicated  in  the  open- 
ing of  this  chapter,  Lane,  the  chief  clerk  of  Mr. 
Martin,  who  had  been  engaged  in  settling  the 
Bank  account  for  the  previous  three  months,  came 
up  to  him,  holding  five  checks  in  his  hand,  each 
for  a  thousand  dollars,  and  said — 

"Mr.  Martin,  I  find  a  difference  in  our  ac- 
counts with  the  Bank,  of  just  five  thousand  dollars 
— and  here  are  five  cancelled  checks,  of  one  thou- 
sand dollars  each,  for  which  I  find  no  correspond- 
ing dates  or  numbers  in  our  check-book.  What 
can  this  mean  ?" 

Mr.  Martin  took  the  checks  from  the  hand  of 
nis  clerk,  and,  after  examining  them  attentively 
for  a  moment  or  two,  said  with  a  look  of  alarm — 

"  These  are  forgeries,  Mr.  Lane !" 

"  So  I  feared," "was  the  clerk's  reply,  in  a  voice 
of  concern. 

A  silence  of  some  moments  ensued,  when  Mr. 
Martin  asked — 

"  Do  your  suspicions  fall  upon  any  one  ?" 

"  They  do  not.  The  discovery  of  this  discre- 
pancy between  the  two  accounts,  and  the  fact  of 
your  pronouncing  the  checks  to  be  forgeries,  are 
so  recent,  that  I  have  not  had  time  to  think  be- 
yond the  mere  circumstance  that  a  forgery  has 
been  committed." 

"Do  not,  then,  allude,  in  any  way  to  the  fact ;  1 
will  inform  the  Bank,  and  leave  its  officers  to  take 


96 


BELL,    MARTIN. 


their  own  measures,  as  the  loss  will  fall  upon  the 
institution." 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  on  the  next  day, 
that  Mr.  Martin  was  sent  for,  in  great  haste,  by 
the  runner  of  the  Bank  in  which  his  account  was 
kept.  He  repaired  at  once  to  the  banking  house, 
and  was  shown  into  the  private  room  of  the 
Cashier. 

"  For  what  purpose  am  I  summoned  T'  he  asked, 
a  feeling  of  alarm  coming  over  him  as  he  looked 
steadily  into  the  officer's  face,  and  saw  that  it  wore 
a  painful  expression. 

"  We  have  already  detected  the  forger  of  your 
check  !"  the  Cashier  said. 

"  And  secured  him  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Who  is  he  1" 

"  Sorry,  indeed,  am  I  to  say,  Mr.  Martin,  that  it 
is  your  own  son-in-law." 

"  Henry  Ware !"  ejaculated  the  merchant,  his 
face  blanched  to  an  ashy  paleness. 

"  It  is,  alas!  too  true,  Mr.  Martin.  The  unhappy 
young  man  is  now  in  the  custody  of  an  officer  of 
the  police." 

At  this  intelligence,  Mr.  Martin  sunk  into  a 
chair,  and  shading  his  face  with  his  hand,  sat  for 
some  time  before  his  agitated  feelings  were  suffi- 
ciently calmed  to  allow  his  thoughts  to  come  into 
distinct  forms.  At  length  he  said — 

"  And  so  the  matter  is  already  in  the  hands  of 
the  police'!" 

"  Yes,  sir.  A  check  was  presented  for  five 
thousand  dollars,  which  the  teller  at  once  detected 
as  a  forgery.  The  young  man  was  detained,  and 
an  officer  sent  for." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  this,"  re  alied  Mr.  Martin,  with 
a  troubled  countenance.  "Why  did  you  not  first 
send  for  me." 


BLIGHTKD   HOPES.  97 

"  That  course  would  have  been  pursued,  had  I 
known  the  young  man  at  the  moment  of  his  de- 
tection. The  fact  that  it  was  the  son  of  old  Mr. 
Ware,  and  the  husband  of  your  daughter,  came  to 
my  knowledge  too  late." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"He  was  taken  to  the  Mayor's  office  a  few 
minutes  before  you  came  in." 

"  Has  Mr.  Ware  been  informed  of  the  facts *" 

"Not  through  me." 

Mr.  Martin  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  hurried 
away  to  the  Mayor's  office,  where  he  found  the 
young  man  undergoing  an  examination.  The  tes- 
timony of  the  teller  was  clear  as  to  the  fact  of  his 
having  presented  the  check  pronounced  a  forgery, 
and  the  Mayor  was  only  waiting  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Martin,  for  whom  an  officer  had  been  despatched, 
to  have  the  check  pronounced  genuine  or  spurious, 
Reluctantly  he  was  compelled  to  say  that  the 
check  had  been  forged.  An  order  for  Ware's 
commitment  to  prison,  to  await  his  trial  at  the 
Quarter  Sessions,  followed  next  in  order.  To  pre- 
vent this,  Mr.  Martin  entered  into  a  recognizance 
in  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars,  for  his  appear- 
ance at  Court. 

This  done,  the  old  man  turned  away  sternly, 
without  letting  his  eyes  rest  upon  the  unhappy 
young  man.     From  the  Mayor's  office  he  went  to 
his  store.    After  informing  Mr.  Lane  of  the  pain- 
ful discovery  that  had  been  made,  he  bent  his  steps 
homeward,  with  a  troubled  and  heavy  heart.    On          \ 
entering  the  family  sitting-room,  he  found  no  one 
in  but  Bel],  and  one  of  his  little  grandchildren,  a 
beautiful  boy,  who  was  playing  about  in  happy          > 
unconsciousness  of  the  guilt  of  one  parent,  and  the          ; 
wretchedness  of  the  other. 

"  Where  is  your  mother,  Bell  1"  he  asked  with          £ 


98  BELL   MARTIN. 

an  expression  of  countenance  that  made  the  blood 
feel  cold  about  the  heart  of  his  child. 

"  She  has  gone  out,"  was  the  reply,  while  his 
daughter  looked  earnestly  and  inquiringly  into  his 
face.  Then  followed  a  long  silence,  during  which 
Mr.  Martin  was  debating  the  question  whether  he 
should  at  once,  and  plainly,  unfold  to  his  child  the 
conduct  of  her  husband,  or  leave  her  to  discover  it 
in  some  other  way. 

The  manner  of  her  father  convinced  Bell  that 
something  was  wrong,  and  her  thoughts  turned 
instinctively  to  her  husband.  His  long  continued 
silence  at  length  became  so  distressing,  filling  her 
mind  as  it  did  with  vague  and  terrible  fears,  that 
she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  forced  calmness, 
"  something  is  the  matter,  I  know.  If  it  concerns 
me,  nearly,  do  not  keep  me  in  suspense.  I  can 
bear  painful  news  from  your  lips  better  than  from 
another's." 

"  To  you,  my  dear,  suffering  child,"  replied  the 
old  man,  in  a  voice  that  trembled,  coming  to  her 
side  as  he  spoke,  "  the  news  I  have  to  tell  will  be 
painful  indeed." 

"  Does  it  concern  Henry  1"  asked  Bell,  eagerly 
and  quickly,  looking  up  into  her  father's  face  with 
pale  and  quivering  lips. 

"It  does  concern  that  wretched  young  man, 
Bell." 

"  O,  father !  Speak  out  plainly !  How  does  it 
concern  him  ?" 

"  He  has  been  detected  in  the  crime  of  forgery." 

•'  Father  !  it  cannot  be — it  is  not  true  !"  ex- 
claimed Bell,  starting  suddenly  to  her  feet,  an  in- 
dignant expression  glancing  across  her  face. 

"  Would  to  Heaven  it  were  not  so,  my  child  I— 
But  it  is,  indeed,  too  true." 

"  Where — where  is  he,  father  . ' 


-.  •x'W-*-^^.^-' 


BLIGHTED    HOPES. 


"  I  do  not  know,  and  hut  for  your  sake  I  would 
say,  that  I  did  not  care.  He  was  arrested  thia 
morning,  and  carried  before  the  Mayor,  when  the 
crime  was  fully  proved.  I  was  present,  and  went 
his  bail  to  prevent  his  being  taken  to  prison." 

"  Upon  whom  was  the  forgery  committed  7"  ask- 
ed Bell,  in  a  firm  tone,  white  her  face  was  deadly 
pale. 

"  Upon but  that  is  of  no  consequence,  Bel." 

"  But  I  wish  to  know,  father." 

"  You  know  enough,  already,  my  child  ;  more, 
I  fear,  than  your  poor  afflicted  heart  can  bear." 

"  Was  it  on  you?"  persevered  the  daughter. 

..  Bell " 

"  Say,  father !     Was  it  upon  you  ?" 

"  It  was,  my  child,"  replied  the  old  man,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation.  "  But  that  does  not  change, 
in  any  way,  the  features  of  the  case." 

The  half-expected,  but  dreaded  reply  of  her 
father,  smote  heavily  upon  Bell's  heart. 

"  Oh,  how  could  he  have  done  that !  How  could 
he  have  done  that !"  she  murmured,  in  a  low,  in- 
distinct tone,  dropping  her  head  upon  her  bosom. 
In  a  few  moments  the  tears  came  gushing  forth, 
while  her  whole  body  was  convulsed  with  violent 
sobs.  Her  little  boy,  seeing  the  distress  of  his 
mother,  ran  to  her  side  in  alarm,  and  climbing  up 
into  her  lap,  threw  his  arms  around  her  neck,  and 
while  his  tears  mingled  with  hers,  begged  her,  in 
lisping  accents,  not  to  cry. 

"  Try  and  bear  it  as  well  as  you  can,  my  dear 
child,*1  said  Mr.  Martin,  after  the  violence  of  Bell's 
emotion  had  subsided  in  a  degree. 

"  But,  father,  this  is  hard  to  bear." 

"  I  know-it  Bell.  But  what  we  are  compelled  to 
bear  should  be  made  as  light  as  possible.  Your 
husband  has,  from  the  first,  shown  himself  not  only 
to  be  an  unprincipled  man,  but  has  treated  you 


100  BELL   MARTIN. 

with  a  coldness  and  cruelty  that  it  seems  to  me 
ought  long  since  to  have  utterly  estranged  your 
affections  from  him.  It  ought,  then,  not  to  be 
hard  to  bear  a  permanent  separation  from  him. 
To  be  to  him  as  if  he  were  not." 

"Father!  Do  not  talk  so  about  my  husband, 
and  the  father  of  my  dear  little  ones  !  I  cannot 
bear  it.  If  I  am  willing  to  endure  all  this  coldness 
and  estrangement,  you  ought  not  to  complain. 
But  why  do  you  talk  of  a  permanent  separa- 
tion ]"  And  the  face  of  the  young  wife  grew  paler 
still. 

"  Are  you  not  aware,  Bell,  that  the  crime  of 
forgery  is  punishable  by  long  years  of  solitary 
confinement  in  the  penitentiary  1  This  must  be 
your  husband's  inevitable  fate,  if  his  case  should 
come  to  trial,  which  I  presume  will  never  take 
place." 

"  How  can  that  be  prevented  ]" 

"  By  his  going  away,  and  leaving  me  to  forfeit 
the  ten  thousand  dollars  bail." 

To  this  Bell  made  no  reply,  but  sat  in  a  musing, 
dreamy  attitude,  forgetful  of  all  around  her.  The 
cup  of  her  misery  seemed  full. 

As  for  old  Mr.  Martin,  his  mind  was  agitated  by 
many  conflicting  thoughts  and  painful  emotions. 
f  Family  pride  was,  with  him,  a  strong  feeling.  The 
<  unfortunate  marriage  of  his  daughter,  besides  its 
other  painful  concomitants,  deeply  wounded  this 
feeling,  and  had  caused  him  to  cherish  much  bit- 
terness toward  Henry  Ware.  Now  this  pride  was 
destined  to  receive  a  more  powerful  blow  in  the 
publicity  of  the  fact  that  the  husband  of  his  daugh- 
ter had  proved  a  forger. 

Hurriedly,  yet  involuntarily,  did  both  father  and 
daughter,  each  almost  entirely  forgetful  of  the 
other's  presence,  review  the  past  five  or  six 
years.  Alas!  how  had  they  mocked  all  the 


A  WIFE'S  LOVE.  101 

bright  promise  of  earlier  days.  Could  there  have 
been  a  more  utter  shipwreck  of  a  young  heart's 
best  affections  ?  Could.a  father's  tender  hopes  for 
his  child  have  been  more  deeply  and  incurably 
blighted  1 

As  for  the  latter,  the  more  he  thought  about  the 
conduct  of  his  daughter's  husband,  the  more  his 
anger  was  aroused  against  him.  The  final  conclu- 
sion of  his  mind  was,  that  Henry  Ware  should 
never  again  cross  the  threshold  of  his  house,  nor 
Bell,  if  he  could  prevent  it,  ever  see  him  again. 

"  i\o  good  can  come  out  of  it,"  he  argued  to 
himself,  "  and  much  harm  in  the  necessary  distur- 
bance of  my  poor  child's  mind.  Besides,  he  has 
not  only  violated  every  honorable  principle  in  his 
intercourse  and  connection  with  my  family,  but 
stands,  now,  in  the  position  of  a  criminal,  who  has 
deliberately  broken  the  laws  of  his  country.  No, 
no.  He  shall  never  enter  this  house  again !" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A   WIFE'S  LOVE. 

NEARLY  a  mile  away  from  the  fashionable 
neighborhood,  in  which  the  elegant  mansion  of 
Mr.  Martin  attracted  every  eye,  stood  a  neat  little 
dwelling,  unpretending  without,  and  modestly  ar- 
ranged within.  Here  lived  Mr.  Lane  and  Mary, 
his  pure-minded,  loving  wife.  Two  dear  little 
ones  made  up  the  number  of  their  household 
treasures — sweet,  innocent  children,  who  bore  in 
9* 


102  BELL   MARTIN. 

then  young  countenances  the  miniature  image  of 
their  mother's  face.  Blessed  indeed  were  they  in 
the  marriage  union  !  Every  passing  day  but  en- 
deared them  more  and  more  to  each  other — for 
almost  every  day  developed  in  the  character  of 
each  some  new  moral  beauty  perceptible  to  the 
other.  In  regard  to  external  circumstances,  they 
had  no  cause  for  complaint.  The  liberal  salary 
which  Mr.  Martin  paid  to  one  in  whom  he  had 
such  good  cause  for  reposing  almost  unlimited 
confidence,  was  full  five  hundred  dollars  in  each 
year  more  than  was  required  to  meet  all  expenses 
incident  to  household  economy.  Already  had  he 
been  able  to  purchase  the  pleasant  little  dwelling 
into  which  his  dear  ones  were  gathered,  and  now 
he  was  depositing  the  surplus  of  his  salary  in  a 
savings  bank,  in  view  of  accumulating  a  small 
capital  with  which,  at  some  future  time,  to  enter 
into  business. 

The  discovery  of  Ware  as  the  forger  of  Mr. 
Martin's  checks  pained  him  very  deeply— not  so 
much  on  the  young  man's  account,  for  he  had 
never  regarded  him  in  any  other  light  than  that 
of  a  cold-hearted,  unprincipled  villain,  capable 
of  this  or  any  other  act  that  would  serve  his  sel- 
fish purposes;  but  for  the  sake  of  Mr.  Martin, 
and  especially  for  poor  Bell,  did  he  feel  pained  ex- 
ceedingly. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  on  coming  home  at  dinner 
time,  "  I  have  bad  news  to  tell  you.  Henry  Ware 
has  been  arrested  for  forgery,  and  the  fact  fully 
proved." 

"  Poor  Bell !"  exclaimed  Mary,  striking  her 
hands  suddenly  together.  "  Poor  Bell !  It  will  kiU 
her !" 

"  It  may  go  hard  now,  Mary ;  but  it  will  be  bet- 
ter  for  her  m  the  end." 

"  How  so  ?" 


A   WIPE  8   LOVE.  106 

"  They  will  be  permanently  separated.  He  wil. 
have  to  go  away  from  here  before  his  trial  comes 
on,  and  leave  Mr.  Martin  to  pay  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars bail,  which  he  was  foolish  enough  to  involve 
himself  in,  or  be  sentenced  for  four  or  five  years 
imprisonment  in  the  Penitentiary." 

"  If  he  goes  away,  as  you  say,  cannot  he  return 
after  the  trial  is  over  1" 

"O  no.  The  crime  is  one  against  the  State, 
and  nothing  will  do  but  the  legal  penalty.  He  can 
never  return,  if  he  goes  away,  without  being  sub- 
ject to  a  revival  of  the  prosecution.  As  I  said  be- 
fore, I  have  no  doubt  but  that  it  will  be  far  better 
for  her  never  to  see  him  again." 

"  But  you  must  remember  that  he  is  her  hus- 
band, and  the  father  of  her  children.  That  he 
called  out  the  first  ardent  feelings  of  a  young  and 
affectionate  heart;  feelings  that  even  cruel  ne- 
glect and  wrong  have  not  been  able  to  subdue. 
You  must  remember  that  she  still  looks  up  to  and 
rests  upon  him  as  her  husband." 

"  How  can  she  thus  rest,  Mary,  when  there  is 
not  in  his  character  a  single  healthy  moral  princi- 
ple 1  I  confess  that  I  do  not  understand  it.  She 
I  know  to  be  innocent  and  pure-minded.  How, 
then,  can  she  cling  to  one  so  utterly  unprincipled 
as  Henry  Ware  1" 

"  He  is  her  husband !"  was  Mary's  emphatic 
reply. 

"  Still  I  do  not  understand  it." 

"  The  reason  is  plain." 

"  What  is  it  7" 

"  You  have  not  a  woman's  heart." 
,   "  True,  Mary, — and  that  may  explain  it.     But  I 
will  not  say  that  it  does." 

"  How  long  will  it  be  before  the  trial  comes  on!" 
asked  Mary,  after  a  thoughtful  pause. 
About  a  month,  I  think." 


104  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  A  month  1  Until  that  time,  he  can,  of  courgBi 
remain  in  Philadelphia  1" 

"  Yes,  if  he  chooses  to  do  so." 

"  I  wish,  for  the  sake  of  Bell,  that  the  trial  would 
come  on  in  a  week." 
\  "  Why  so  V 

"  Because  in  that  case  she  would  the  sooner  be 
',  separated  from  him." 

"  My  own  impression  is  that  she  will  never  see 
him  again." 

"Why?" 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  Mr.  Martin  will  permit 
WTare  to  enter  his  house.  He  was  terribly  in- 
censed against  him." 

"  That  will  not  prevent  Bell  from  seeing  him. 
She  loves  him  too  well,  even  though  he  has  almost 
broken  her  heart.  If  he  is  not  allowed  to  come 
into  her  father's  house,  she  will  go  to  his  father's, 
or  any  where  else,  for  the  purpose  of  meeting  him. 
I  wish  she  could  give  him  up ;  but  I  fear  that  she 
cannot." 

"  She  will  have  to  give  him  up  soon,  Mary." 

"  I  know  it.    But  she  will  not  do  it  until  the 
\          last  moment.     Of  that  I  am  sure." 
•  "  Cannot  you  influence  her  in  the  matter?" 

"Not  so  far  as  to  prevent  her  meeting  him. 
And,  indeed,  I  could  not  urge  her  upon  this  sub- 
ject. He  is  her  husband — and  she  loves  him  deep- 
ly. Why  should  she  not  be  permitted  the  sad 
pleasure  of  a  few  stolen  interviews  with  him,  ere 
\  they  are  parted,  perhaps  forever  T' 

"  Would  it  not  be  well  for  you  to  go  over  and 
see  her  this  afternoon  V 

"  O,  yes.     I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  as  soon  as 
^          I  learned  the  painful  intelligence.     Since  Fanny's 
marriage  and  removal  to  New  York,  there  has 
been  no  one  but  myself  to  whom  she  has  felt  free 


A  WIFE'S  LOVE.  105 

to  tell  all  her  feelings,  and  thus  find  relief  in  their 
expression.'' 

It  was  about  four  o'clock,  on  the  same  after- 
noon, that  a  gentle  tap  at  Bell's  chamber  door, 
aroused  her  from  a  state  of  gloomy  abstraction. 
Her  low,  hall-reluctant  "come  in,"  was  answered 
by  the  entrance  of  Mary.  They  were  in  each 
other's  arms  in  a  moment,  the  tears  gushing  from 
the  eyes  of  both.  For  many  minutes  they  were 
together  in  silence.  At  last,  the  feelings  of  each 
became  subdued. 

"O.Mary!  is  not  this  dreadful?"  said  Bell  at 
length,  the  tears  flowing  afresh. 

"  It  is  indeed  dreadful,  Bell,"  replied  Mary,  as 
soon  as  she  could  command  her  voice.  "  And, 
much  as  my  heart  yearns  for  the  ability,  I  know 
not  how  to  offer  you  words  of  comfort." 

"  That  is  in  the  power  of  no  one,  Mary !  For 
me  there  is  nothing  left  but  stern  endurance.  Oh, 
Mary!  To  think  that  Henry  should  have  been  so 
mad,  so  wicked,  as  to  commit  such  a  crime !  I 
could  have  borne  all  his  neglect  of  me,  and  still 
lived  on,  cherishing,  as  I  have  done,  the  hope  that 
a  day  would  come  when  all  the  excitements  that 
won  him  away  from  me,  would  lose  their  power 
over  him,  and' then  he  would  be  to  me  all  that  I 
could  desire.  That  then  he  would  discover  how 
deeply  and  fondly  I  had  loved  him,  through  neglect 
and  unkindness,  and  be  constrained  to  give  me 
back  his  neart  in  return.  But  alas !  alas !  All 
these  long  and  ardently  cherished  hopes  have 
been  scattered,  in  a  moment,  to  the  winds.  He 
has  been  guilty  of  crime,  and  must  flee,  like  a 
hunted  criminal,  or,  remaining,  receive  the  stern 
sentence  of  the  law  for  his  misdeeds." 

"Have  you  seen  him  since  morning]"  asked 
Mary,  after  a  pause. 

"  No,  Mary.    And  what  is  more,  father  says  he 


106  BELL   MARTIN. 

shall  never  enter  this  house  again.  I  cannot  blame 
him,  but  I  feel  it  to  be  very  hard.  He  is  my  hus- 
band still,  and  1  cannot  give  him  up." 

"  But  is  it  not  better  that  you  should  not  see 
him  again,  Bell?  The  interview  would  only  have 
the  effect  to  wound  still  deeper  your  already 
crushed  feelings." 

"  I  must  see  him,  Mary,  and  I  will  see  him," 
replied  Bell  with  a  sudden  energy.  "  Can  you 
suppose,  for  a  moment,  that  I  would  let  him 
go  away,  never  again  to  return — to  be  an  out- 
cast in  the  world — a  pursued  and  hunted  man 
— and  not  give  him  a  wife's  parting  blessing* 
No — no — Mary!  I  must  and  will  see  him — 
and  that  many  times — before  we  part,  perhaps, 
for  ever." 

"  Do  not  act  too  broadly  against  your  father's 
desire,  Bell,"  urged  Mary. 

"  He  is  my  husband,"  was  the  firm  reply ;  "  and 
now,  when  all  turn  from  him,  shall  his  wife  give 
him  up  1  No,  Mary !  That  would  be  a  sin 
against  nature.  I  cannot  and  I  will  not  give  him 
up." 

The  manner  of  Bell  showed  that  she  was  ^so- 
lute in  her  determination,  and  therefore  Mary  did 
not  urge  her  further  upon  a  subject  so  pain&i.  fc> 
both. 


CRIME   AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  107 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

CRIME   AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCES. 

WHEN  old  Mr.  Ware  received  the  painful  and 
»oortifying  intelligence  of  his  son's  crime,  he  be- 
came deeply  incensed,  and  when  he  met  him,  up- 
braided him  with  his  conduct  in  bitter  terms. 

"  You  are  no  longer  my  son !  I  disown  you 
from  this  moment !"  he  said  in  angry  tones.  "  My 
son  could  not  be  .guilty  of  baseness  and  crime." 

"Blame  yourself  alone,  as  I  do,"  was  the  young 
man's  brief,  but  stern  reply. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ]"  asked  the  father,  still  in 
a  voice  of  anger. 

"  I  mean,  simply,  that  in  consequence  of  your 
refusal  to  supply  me  with  the  money  required  to 
make  such  an  appearance  as  a  young  man  in  my 
station  in  society  had  a  right  to  make,  I  was  driv- 
en to  the  gaming-table,  where  debts  of  honor  ac- 
cumulated against  me  to  such  an  extent,  that  I 
could  wipe  them  out  no  other  way  than  by  for- 
gery. Mr.  Martin,  like  yourself,  has  played 
toward  me  a  niggardly  part,  and  upon  his  purse  I 
first  commenced  operations.  In  doing  so,  I  mere- 
ly took  what  he  should  long  since  have  given.  I 
do  not  consider  my  offence  a  criminal  one." 

This  mode  of  reasoning  excited  Mr.  Ware  still 
more,  especially  as  there  was  an  air  of  insolence 
and  hardihood  about  his  son,  that  ill  became  one 
in  his  peculiar  circumstances.  A  keen  retort 
trembled  on  his  tongue,  but  he  suppressed  it,  and 
turning  away  quickly,  left  the  young  man  to  his 
own  reflections.  These  were  not  of  a  very  pleasant 
nature,  for  he  was  yet  undetermined,  fully,  in  re. 


108  BEI.L    MARTIN 

gard  to  future  action.  To  leave  the  city  would 
be,  of  course,  his  first  movement,  unless  prevented 
from  so  doing.  But  where  to  hide  himself  away 
from  the  law's  searching  glances  he  knew  not,  nor 
how  he  should — cut  off  entirely  from  every  re- 
source but  his  own  exertions,  as  he  expected  to 
be,  now  that  both  Mr.  Martin  and  his  father  were 
so  incensed  against  him — maintain  himself  even 
in  an  humble  position. 

On  the  next  morning  the  newspapers  teemed 
with  various  accounts  of  the  forgery,  and  with 
many  allusions  to  the  families  of  both  Mr.  Ware 
and  Mr.  Martin.  Some  few  hesitated  not  to  assert 
that  the  young  man  would,  of  course,  escape  the 
legal  penalty  of  his  crime,  seeing  that  his  father 
and  father-in-law  were  rich  men.  Others  suddenly 
remembered,  or  thought  they  remembered,  a  some- 
what similar  case,  in  which  an  uncle  of  young 
Ware  had  been  implicated  many  years  previous. 
These  things  were  deeply  galling  to  both  families, 
and  to  all  who  stood  in  any  way  connected  with 
them. 

Painfully  mortified  at  the  position  in  which 
the  discovery  of  his  conduct  had  placed  him, 
Henry  Ware  shrunk  away  in  his  father's  house 
from  an  exposure  of  himself  to  the  public  eye. 
The  only  one  there  who  seemed  to  feel  for  him 
was  his  mother.  She  could  -not  frown  upon  her 
child,  now  that  every  tongue  spake  against  him. 
Much  as  she  abhorred  his  conduct,  she  could 
not  resist  the  pleadings  of  maternal  love  for  her 
child. 

She  had  been  with  him  alone  for  nearly  an 
hour,  on  the  morning  following  the  discovery  of 
his  mad  act,  and  her  conversation  and  manifesta- 
tion of  deep  affection,  wounded  and  bruised  as  it 
was,  had  softened  his  feelings  a  good  deal,  when 
a  letter,  addressed  to  him,  was  handed  in.  He 


CRIME  AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  109 

broke  the  seal  hurriedly,  and  read,  not  unmoved, 
the  following  touching  epistle  from  his  wife  : — 

"  MY  DEAR  HUSBAND — Since  the  dreadful  news 
of  yesterday  morning,  I  have  been  waiting  with  a 
fluttering  heart  to  see  you  or  to  hear  from  you. 
Now,  I  am  told  that  you  are  no  more  to  enter 
these  walls,  and  that  I  am  never  again  to  hold  com- 
munication with  you.  But  this,  no  human  being  has 
power  to  say,  but  yourself.  Are  you  not  my  hus- 
band?— my  husband  whom  I  have  loved  with  a 
depth  and  devotedness  that  tongue  cannot  tell  1 — 
And  shall  I  not  cling  to  you  until  the  last  1  Cling 
to  you  with  a  closer  and  more  self-renouncing 
love,  as  all  others  turn  from  you  1  Yes !  If  I  of- 
fend all  the  world,  I  will  love  my  husband  !  Love 
him  through  evil  report  and  good  report.  Thus 
far,  Henry,  I  have  loved  you  under  coldness  and 
neglect — pardon  my  allusion  to  the  past — loved 
you,  when  the  allurements  of  the  world  won  you 
away  from  your  wife,  and  made  the  smile  on  her 
lip  seem  all  unattractive.  Now,  the  world  turns 
from  you,  but  your  wife  still  remains  true  in  her 
affection  as  the  needle  to  the  pole.  Will  you  not 
now  Jove  her  for  her  unwavering  devotion"?  O, 
Henry !  If  you  knew  how  my  poor  heart  yearns 
for  pleasant  words,  and  tender  looks,  you  would 
no  longer  withhold  them.  Where  are  you?  I 
send  this  to  your  father's,  in  the  hope  that  it  may 
reach  your  hand.  Should  it  do  so,  send  me  word 
where  you  are,  and,  oh  !  how  eagerly  will  I  fly  to 
you. 

Yours,  in  life  and  death,  BELL." 

After  reading  this  letter,  Ware  sat  fora  moment 
in  thoughtful  silence,  and  then  handed  it  to  his 
mother.     After  glancing  hurriedly  through  it,  she 
returned  it  with  the  remark- 
ID 


I 


BELL    MARTIN. 

"  Henry,  among  all  your  faults,  not  the  least  has 
been  your  conduct  toward  your  wife.  Bell  has  not 
deserved  the  coldness  and  neglect  with  which  you 
have  treated  her." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  was  the  half  impatient  reply. 
'But  that  cannot  now  be  helped.  As  it  is,  I 
Jo  not  see  that  any  good  can  grow  out  of  our 
meeting.  I  must  soon  leave  this,  never  again  to 
return  ;  and  so  the  quicker  she  can  forget  me,  the 
better." 

"  Do  not  talk  in  that  way,  Henry,"  said  Mrs. 
Ware,  interrupting  her  son.  "  You  cannot,  and 
you  must  not,  deny  poor  Bell  the  melancholy 
pleasure  of  seeing  you.  Reply  to  this  note  at 
once,  and  say  that  you  are  here.  Address  her 
kindly  and  even  tenderly — for  tender  words  will 
be  sweet  to  her  heart  just  now;  and  surely,  you 
can  give  those,  if  nothing  else." 

About  an  hour  after,  as  Bell  sat  alone  with  her 
two  children,  a  note  came  from  her  husband.  It 
ran  thus : — 

"Mr  DEAR  BELL — Your  affectionate  note  has 
touched  my  feelings  a  good  deal,  and  made  me 
conscious  of  how  deeply  I  have  wounded  a  heart 
whose  every  pulsation  has  been  true  to  me.  I  am 
now  at  my  father's  house,  where  I  shall  remain  for 
a  short  time,  previous  to  my  final  departure  from 
this  city.  Here  I  can  no  longer  remain  in  safety 
Come  and  see  me. 

"  Yours,  &c.  HENRY  WARE." 

Without  an  intimation  to  any  one  of  her  de- 
sign, Bell  instantly  repaired  to  the  house  of  Mr. 
Ware.  Here  she  held  a  long  interview  with  her 
husband,  in  which  more  expressions  of  tenderness 
fell  from  his  lips,  than  had  greeted  her  ears  since 
the  first  few  months  of  their  married  life  hurried 


CRIME  AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  11-1 

pleasantly  and  rapidly  away.  It  mattered  not 
how  sincere  they  were  on  his  part.  To  her  spirit, 
they  were  like  cool,  refreshing  dews  to  the  dry 
and  thirsty  ground.  Dearer  than  ever  did  he 
seem  to  her,  and  more  painful  than  at  first  was 
the  idea  of  a  separation. 

It  was  between  two  and  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  when  Bell  returned.  While  standing  at 
the  door,  waiting  for  the  servant  to  open  it,  her 
father  came  up. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Bell  V  he  asked,  look- 
ing her  gravely  in  the  face,  as  soon  as  they  had 
entered  the  hall. 

"  I  have  been  to  Mr.  Ware's,"  she  replied,  in  a 
hesitating  voice,  while  her  cheek  colored,  and  her 
eyes  fell  upon  the  floor. 

"  To  Mr.  Ware's  1  and  at  this  time  !  Why  did 
you  go  there,  BelU" 

"  It  is  scarcely  necessary  for  me  to  tell  the  rea- 
son, father.  I  went,  of  course,  to  see  Henry." 

"  And  after  what  I  said  to  you  this  morning  1" 
rejoined  Mr.  Martin,  in  an  excited  tone. 

"Father,  he  is  my  husband,  and  my  heart 
will  cling  to  him  until  it  is  broken,"  was  the 
daughter's  reply.  Then  bursting  into  tears,  she 
glided  away,  and  sought  the  sanctuary  of  her  own 
chamber. 

"Infatuated  girl !"  ejaculated  Mr.  Martin.  But 
his  words  did  not  reach  her  ear. 

In  despite  of  argument,  remonstrance,  persua- 
sion, and  every  other  means  resorted  to  for  the 
purpose  of  influencing  her,  Bell  repaired  regularly 
to  the  house  of  Mr.  Ware,  and  spent  hours  of  each 
day  with  her  husband.  From  him,  she  learned  his 
plans  in  regard  to  the  future.  Under  the  assumed 
name  of  Johnson,  he  would  repair  to  New  Or- 
leans, and  upon  a  capital  of  two  or  three  thousand 
dollars,  which  his  father  had  promised  to  give  him 


BELL    MARTIN. 

at  parting,  he  stated  to  her  that  he  intended  to 
enter  into  some  business,  and  try,  if  possible,  to 
reform  himself.  As  soon  as  he  got  a  little  ahead 
there,  he  purposed  going  to  Cuba,  as  a  place  of 
permanent  residence.  There  he  would  be  free 
from  the  threatening  penalties  of  the  law  he  had 
so  madly  violated.  The  ten  thousand  dollars  for 
which  Mr.  Martin  would  be  held  liable,  were  to 
be  paid  over  by  his  father  when  the  day  of  trial 
came  and  it  was  found  that  the  recognizance  had 
been  forfeited. 

In  all  these  plans,  eagerly  as  her  ear  listened  for 
it,  there  was  nothing  said  about  her  being  sent  for 
to  join  him. 

"How  soon  do  you  think  that  you  will  get 
fairly  into  business  in  New  Orleans'?"  she  asked, 
about  a  week  before  the  day  fixed  for  his  depar- 
ture. 

"In  a  few  months  after  my  arrival  there,  I 
nope." 

"  Shan  't  I  come  out  to  you  then?" 

The  voice  of  Bell  trembled  as  she  asked  this 
question,  and  the  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"Leave  your  comfortable  home,  surrounded 
with  luxury  and  elegance,  and  join  me,  an  out- 
cast, in  a  strange  city  1  That  idea  never  crossed 
my  mind,  Bell." 

"  But  it  has  mine,  a  hundred  and  a  hundred 
times,"  replied  his  wife.  "  Whenever  you  go,  I 
am  ready  to  follow,  and  fully  prepared  to  share 
your  lot,  be  it  what  it  may." 

To  this,  Ware  did  not  reply  for  some  minutes. 
Then  he  said — 

"  For  a  time,  Bell,  I  think  you  had  better  re- 
main here.  I  know  not  what  may  befall  me.  It 
may  happen  that  all  my  efforts  will  prove  un- 
successful, and  that  I  may  find  myself  far  away 
from  home  and  friends,  in  sickness  and  destitu- 


CRIME   AND   ITS   CONSEdUENCES.  113 

( 

tior.  If  such  should  be  the  case,  I  can  write  free- 
ly  to  you,  and  through  you  at  least  obtain  some 
small  relief.  If  success  should,  however,  crown 
my  efforts,  then  you  can  readily  join  me.  In  fact, 
I  could  come  on  as  far  as  Baltimore,  and  meet  you 
there." 

To  this  arrangement  Bell  consented.  Two 
weeks  previous  to  the  day  of  trial,  Ware  took 
leave  of  the  few  friends  who  were  in  the  secret 
of  his  movements,  and  left  Philadelphia.  To  his 
mothers  and  sisters  the  parting  was  painful  in  the 
extreme.  It  was  to  them  as  if  death  were  about 
to  separate  him  from  them  —  aye,  worse  than 
death,  for  it  was  dishonor  and  crime,  and  the  sep- 
aration was  to  be  permanent.  Old  Mr.  Ware 
assumed  a  stern  aspect,  but  as  he  took  the  hand 
*>f  his  son  in  the  final  pressure,  and  looked  upon 
nis  face  for  the  last  time  perhaps,  his  feelings  gave 
way. 

"  God  bless  you,  Harry !"  he  said  in  a  choking 
voice,  and  then  turned  away  hastily  to  hide  his 
feelings.  He  might  never  see  the  face  of  his  son 
again— his  only  son,  upon  whom  he  had  so  often 
looked  in  hope  and  pride,  now  parting  from  him, 
perhaps,  forever,  and  with  a  stain  upon  his  char- 
acter which  nothing  could  wipe  out. 

As  for  Bell,  that  parting  hour  was  the  bitterest 
of  her  life.  And  yet  she,  of  all  whom  he  had  left 
behind  him,  was  the  only  one  that  had  the  feeblest 
hope  of  ever  again  seeing  his  face.  But,  fond 
creature,  she  dreamed  not  of  the  cold-hearted  sel- 
fishness with  which  he  laid  his  real  plans  for  the 
future  in  regard  to  her.  As  to  going  into  business 
in  New  Orleans,  there  was  some  truth  in  that ;  but 
it  was  the  business  of  gambling  and  cheating. 
Fortune  he  expected  to  go  often  against  him,  and 
of  course  he  would  need  fresh  supplies  of  money. 
With  Bell  and  his  mother  he  determined  to  keep 
10* 


J 


114  BELL   MARTIN. 

up  a  regular  correspondence,  deceiving  them 
throughout  in  regard  to  what  he  was  doing,  and 
as  to  the  real  motives  of  action  that  governed  him. 
He  knew  that  he  could  readily  deceive  them,  and 
through  this  deception  he  had  little  doubt  but  that 
he  could  often  obtain  money.  If  in  this  way  he 
could  not  still  manage  to  drain  the  purses  of  his 
father  and  Mr.  Martin,  it  was  his  determination  to 
mduce  Bell  to  join  him,  under  the  belief  that  her 
father,  who  was  deeply  attached  to  his  daughter, 
as  he  well  knew,  would  transmit  liberal  sums  to 
her  in  order  to  keep  her,  as  she  had  been  all  her 
life,  above  the  want  of  any  thing  that  money 
could  procure.  Thus,  with  a  degree  of  cruel  sel- 
fishness, hardly  paralleled,  did  this  wretched 
young  man  lay  his  plans  of  future  action. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

COMPANIONS   IN  EVIL. 

IT  was  about  three  years  from  the  time  that 
Henry  Ware,  exiled  by  crime  from  his  home  and 
friends,  left  Philadelphia,  that  two  men  sat  con- 
versing in  a  private  room  of  an  obscure  tavern  in 
what  was  called  "  Natchez-under-the-Hill."  Both 
were  evidently  young,  or,  at  least,  in  the  earliest 
prime  and  freshness  of  manhood — yet  strong  lines 
had  already  deepened  on  their  foreheads,  and 
every  lineament  of  their  countenances  bore  vivid- 
ly the  marks  of  evil  and  selfish  passions  long  in- 
dulged. A  skin  deeply  bronzed,  and  large  black 
whiskers,  meeting  under  their  chins,  gave  effect  to 


COMPANIONS   IN   EVIL.  .115 

the  singularly  bold  and  ferocious  aspect  of  their 
faces.  They  sat  opposite  to  each  other,  at  a  small 
square  table,  upon  which  were  glasses  and  a  de- 
canter, containing  nearly  a  quart  of  brandy. 
Each  was  resting  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  his 
chin  upon  his  hands,  and  each  was  looking  the 
other,  while  they  conversed,  intently  in  the  face. 

"  What  then,  in  the  devil's  name,  is  to  be 
clone?"  one  of  them  asked,  in  a  quick,  excited 
tone,  after  listening  to  something  which  the  other 
had  said. 

"  We  must  leave  here,  of  course." 

"Of  course.  But  can  we  get  away  safely? 
That 's  the  question." 

"  I  think  so." 

"How?" 

"  We  must  assume  a  disguise." 

"Of  what  kind?" 

To  this  the  companion  replied  by  taking  from 
his  pocket  a  small  package,  which  he  carefully 
opened,  and  exhibited  two  pairs  of  green  spec- 
tacles. 

"  We  must  shave  off  our  whiskers,  and  mount 
a  pair  of  spectacles  a-piece,"  said  he  with  a  grin 
that  fell  sadly  short  of  a  smile,  for  which  it  was 
intended. 

"And,  in  that  disguise,  return  to  New  Or- 
leans?" 

"  Yes." 

"But,  will  we  be  safe  there,  if  this  fellow  should 
take  it  into  his  head  to  die?  His  connections 
are  rich,  and  will  make  great  efforts  to  have  us 
arrested." 

"  Let  me  get  once  into  New  Orleans,  and  I  '11 
defy  them,"  replied  the  companion. 

Just  at  this  moment  the  door  was  opened  by  a 
coarse,  ill-dressed  fellow,  who  entered  familiarly, 


116  BELL   MARTIN 

and  walking  up  to  the  table  where  the  two  men 
sat,  each  regarding  him  with  a  frown,  said  : 

"  There  are  a  couple  of  chaps  down  stairs  ask- 
ing for  Mr.  Johnson  and  Mr.  Smith." 

"  They  are  not  in,  Mike,"  one  of  the  men  re- 
plied. 

"  O,  aye.  But  I  'm  pretty  sure,  from  their  looks, 
that  they  will  not  take  my  word  for  it." 

"  Indeed !"  And  the  face  of  the  individual  thus 
ejaculating  turned  somewhat  pale. 

"  My  name  is  Hartly.  Will  you  remember  that, 
Mike  1"  said  Johnson,  or  Henry  Ware,  which  was 
truly  his  name. 

"  O  aye,  sir." 

"  And  mine  Haines.  Don  't  forget  that,  Mike," 
added  Smith,  or  Tom  Handy,  Ware's  inseparable 
companion  in  evil,  who  had  been,  really,  as 
much  implicated  as  himself  in  the  forgeries  for 
which  both  were  now  self-banished  from  home 
and  friends. 

"  I  won 't  forget,"  replied  Mike.  "  But  names  are 
nothing,  you  know,  to  these  men,  who  are  not 
going  to  leave  the  house  until  they  know  who  are 
in  it,  or  I  'm  mistaken." 

"  Keep  'em  on  the  wrong  scent  for  some  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes,  will  you,  Mike  ?" 

"O,  aye.  Trust  me  for  that."  And  the  bar- 
keeper, and  doer-of-all-things-in-general  about  the 
establishment,  made  his  bow,  and  departed. 

As  soon  as  he  had  withdrawn,  the  door  was 
locked  after  him,  and  the  two  young  men  pro- 
ceeded, hurriedly,  first  to  shave  offtheir  whiskers, 
and  then  to  change  their  external  garments  for 
others  that  had  not  been  worn  by  them  during 
their  brief  professional  visit  to  Natchez.  Green 
spectacles  and  caps  gave  the  finishing  touch  to 
their  metamorphoses. 

"  Well,  Hartly,  do  you  think  you  would  know 


COMPANIONS    IN   EVIL. 


me,  if  we  were  to  meet  in  the  street !"  asked  Han- 
dy, or  Haines,  as  he  had  newly  styled  himself, 
turning  toward  his  friend. 

"  I  should  certainly  never  suspect  that  it  wag 
you.  But  how  do  I  look  ]" 

"  Like  Mr.  Hartly,  and  no  one  else.  Can  I  say 
more?" 

"  And  you,  like  Mr.  Haines.  Well,  I  think  we 
may  venture  to  pass  the  gentlemen  who  are  so 
kindly  waiting  for  us  below." 

"  I  think  so.  There,  do  you  hear  that  bell 
again]" 

"  Yes.  It  is  the  Gulnare's.  She  has  been 
ringing  for  the  last  five  hours,  and  I  suppose  will 
get  off  now  in  the  course  of  an  hour  more.  Shall 
we  get  on  board  of  her  7" 

"  Most  certainly !  The  quicker  we  can  get 
away  from  here  the  better." 

Every  thing  being  carefully  packed  away  in 
their  trunks,  the  two  companions  descended,  with 
a  careless,  indifferent  air,  to  the  bar-room,  where 
Mike  was  busily  attending  to  his  customers.  As 
they  entered,  they  were  eyed  searchingly  from 
head  to  foot,  by  two  men,  whose  appearance  told 
plainly  enough  their  business.  This  scrutiny  con- 
tinued until  Mike  said — 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Hartly!  What  will  you 
lave  1  Good  morning,  Mr.  Haines !" 

"A  little  brandy  and  water,"  was  the  reply. 

Neither  the  appearance  nor  names  of  the  two 
men  corresponding,  in  any  degree,  with  the  de- 
scriptions of  the  individuals,  which  the  officers — 
for  such  they  were— had  been  directed  to  arrest 
for  an  assault  with  intent  to  kill  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  citizen  of  Natchez,  who  had  come  into 
collision  with  them  at  a  gambling  table,  these  per- 
sonages withdrew,  in  a  few  moments,  their  atten- 
tion from  the  real  objects  of  their  search. 


BELL    MARTIN. 

As  Handy  bent  over  the  counter  to  pay  for  the 
brandy  they  had  taken,  he  pronounced,  in  a  low 
tone,  to  Mike,  the  word 

"  Gulnare." 

"  O,  aye  ?"  responded  Mike,  perfectly  compre- 
hending his  meaning.  And  the  two  walked  de- 
liberately away,  and  repaired  to  the  boat  upon 
which  they  designed  taking  passage  for  New  Or- 
leans. In  the  course  of  half  an  hour,  Mike  ap- 
peared with  their  baggage,  and  for  the  very  import- 
ant assistance  he  had  rendered  Ware  and  Han- 
dy, received  a  ten  dollar  bill,  which  he  pocketed 
with  a  grateful  smile,  and  bowing  hurriedly  de- 
parted. 

With  fear  and  trembling  did  the  young  men 
wait  for  nearly  three  hours  for  the  boat  to  move 
off,  the  bell  ringing  about  every  quarter  of  an 
hour,  giving  all  the  town,  and  the  officers  of  police 
in  particular,  notice — so  it  seemed  to  them — that 
they  were  on  board.  Six  times,  during  that  pe- 
riod, did  they  have  to  endure  the  excruciating 
anxiety  consequent  upon  as  many  visits  from  the 
officers  who  had  put  them  in  such  bodily  fear  at 
the  tavern.  And  for  the  last  half  hour,  they  were 
compelled  tremblingly  to  endure  their  constant 
presence. 

Finally,  as  every  thing  must  have  an  end,  their 
suspense  ended.  The  last  prolonged  vibrations 
from  the  bell  echoed  along  the  hills,  and  died  away 
into  silence,  as  the  boat  was  loosed  from  her 
moorings,  and  fell  gently  down  the  stream.  Not, 
however,  until  the  engine  commenced  its  vigo- 
rous revolutions,  and  the  boat,  yielding  to  its 
power,  shot  away  from  the  landing,  and  the  city 
began  to  look  dim  in  the  distance,  did  our  young 
men  feel  at  ease.  Then  they  began  to  breathe 
more  freely. 

Truly  did  they  find  that  "  The  way  of  trans- 


COMPANIONS   IN  EVIL.  119 

gressors  is  hard."  Both  were  of  wealthy  families, 
and  nad  their  habits  been  correct  and  their  pur- 
suits honorable,  they  might  have  occupied  good 
positions  in  society,  with  the  possession  of  the 
most  ample  means  for  supplying  all  their  wants. 
And  still  more,  have  had  quiet  consciences,  and 
lived  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  most  enlarged  social 
pleasures.  But  they  chose  to  transgress  both 
moral  and  civil  laws — and  the  penalty  was  visited 
upon  them  in  perpetual  pain  of  mind.  Their  evil 
pursuits,  though  accompanied  with  a  kind  of  in- 
sane delight,  were  ever  succeeded  by  a  fear  of 
consequences,  or  reluctant,  and,  at  times,  invol- 
untary selAupbraidings. 

The  excitement  of  escape,  for  so  they  both  es- 
teemed it,  being  over,  neither  Ware  nor  Handy 
felt  much  inclined  to  enter  into  conversation,  but 
sat  silent  and  thoughtful,  musing  over  past  disap- 
pointments, or  busy  with  plans  for  future  opera- 
tions. The  reader  need  scarcely  be  told  that  they 
were  gamblers  by  profession. 

Toward  evening,  Ware  took  up  a  newspaper 
and  read  until  dark.  Then  he  went  out  upon  the 
guards,  and  commenced  pacing  backward  and 
forward  with  a  quick  step,  that  evinced  more  than 
ordinary  excitement  of  mind.  Handy  joined  him. 
But  few  words  had  passed  between  them,  when 
the  latter  said — 

"  Is  it  not  very  strange  that  your  mother  does 
not  write  to  you  now,  Harry  7" 

"  I  have  thought  so.  But  the  mystery  is  solved. 

"In  what  way?" 

"  I  see,  by  a  Philadelphia  newspaper,  which  I 
was  looking  over  in  the  cabin,  that  the  old  man 
has  gone  by  the  board." 

"  How  1     Not  dead,  I  hope  ?" 

"  No,  not  quite  that.  But  he  might  as  well  be, 
for  he  has  become  a  bankrupt." 


l20  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  That 's  bad,  really." 

"  Yes,  bad  for  us,  for  while  there  was  any  thing 

to  be  had,  I  could  drain  a  little  out  of  his  purse"; 

/          but  that  is  over  now.    There  is  no  getting  blood 

out  of  a  turnip,  you  know." 
\  "  It  is  some  time  since  you  heard  from  Bell." 

"  Yes.  And  when  I  did  get  a  letter  from  her, 
there  was  not  much  account  in  it.  Only  a  paltry 
hundred  dollar-bill." 

"  Her  father  suspects  the  use  she  makes  of  the 
money  she  gets  from  him." 

"  So  she  hints.    But  I  suppose  she  hasn  't  man- 
|          aged  it  carefully  enough.     These  women  never 
know  how  to  do  any  thing  rightly,"  was  her  hus- 
\          band's  unfeeling  remark. 

"  We  are  beginning  to  be  pretty  hard  run. 
Luck  seems  all  going  against  us,"  rejoined  Handy, 
after  a  pause.  "Something  must  be  done  to 
raise  the  wind,  or  we  shall  be  driven  to  the  wall 
at  last." 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  come  to  the  last  resort  I 
,<          have  before  mentioned,"  Ware  replied. 
"  What  is  that  1" 
"  Sending  for  Bell.1' 

"  Will  that  do  any  good  1    Won 't  she,  in  fact, 
/          prove  a  useless  encumbrance  1" 

"  She  will  be  encumbrance  enough,  no  doubt. 
But  we  must  take  the  evil  with  the  good.  That 
>,  old  rascal,  her  father,  loves  her  too  well  to  let  her 
be  any  where  without  a  liberal  supply  of  all  the 
means  necessary  to  her  external  comfort.  If  we 
set  her  out  here,  money  must,  and  will  follow 
her." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  f" 

"  Morally  certain.    I  know  old  Martin  too  well 
j          to  doubt  it." 

"  Will  she  leave  her  children,  and  come   to 
\         you  ?" 


VOJMPAMONS   IN   EVIL.  131 

"  Yea,  with  half  an  invitation.  Almost  every 
letter  I  receive  from  her  is  tilled  with  hints  or  open 
requests  for  me  to  say  '  come.'  " 

"  We  can  but  try  the  experiment.  But  suppose 
it  fails.  What  will  you  do  with  Bell  1" 

"  What  would  you  do  with  her?" 

"  She  is  your  wife." 

"  I  know.     But  suppose  she  were  your  wife  V 

"I  would  put  her  in  the  way  of  getting  back 
again  to  her  children  in  double  quick  time." 

"  But  suppose  she  would  n't  go  1" 

"  Then  I  would  leave  her  to  stay  or  go,  as  she 
liked,  while  I  journeyed  elsewhere." 

"  My  own  views,  precisely,"  was  the  heartless 
response  of  Ware. 

That  evening,  and  a  portion  of  the  next  day, 
were  passed  by  the  two  young  men  in  the  busi- 
ness of  studying  the  characters,  and  ascertaining, 
as  far  as  possible,  the  length  of  the  purses  of  the 
different  passengers  on  board  the  Gulnare.  These 
settled  to  their  satisfaction,  as  far  as  it  was  possi- 
ble for  them  to  settle  such  matters,  the  next  thing 
was  to  introduce  cards  in  a  way  that  would  create 
no  suspicion  as  to  their  real  design.  This  was 
done  on  the  second  evening,  and  several  hours 
spent  in  play,  during  which  the  loss  and  gain  were 
but  trifling. 

On  the  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  cards 
were  again  resumed,  and  rather  more  skill  dis- 
played than  on  the  evening  previous.  Still,  our 
young  men  found  themselves  well  matched,  and 
the  tide  of  success,  if  at  all  in  their  favor,  scarcely 
perceptible. 

Among  the  passengers  was  a  young  man  en- 
trusted with  a  large  sum  of  money,  which  was  to 
be  paid  over  to  a  mercantile  house  at  New  Or- 
leans on  his  arrival  there.  Being  a  good  player, 
he  prided  himself  on  his  skill  at  cards,  and  was 
11 


122  BELL   MARTIN. 

much  flattered  at  his  success  while  engaged  with 
Ware,  who,  finding  himself  losing  steadily  at  al- 
most every  game,  was  roused  to  more  energetic 
efforts.  Nearly  the  whole  of  the  third  day  had 
been  spent  in  playing,  and  as  night  drew  on,  both 
Ware  and  Handy  found  themselves,  instead  of 
winners,  almost  entirely  stripped  of  their  slender 
stock  of  money. 

After  supper,  they  held  a  long  conference  to- 
gether out  upon  the  guards,  and  then  went  to  the 
bar  and  drank  pretty  freely.  As  they  entered  the 
cabin  again,  the  young  man  who  had  been  so  suc- 
cessful "during  that  and  the  preceding  day,  met 
them  at  the  door,  and  said  to  Ware — 

"  Well,  stranger,  what  say  you  to  another 
heat  1" 

"  Ready,"  was  the  brief  reply,  and  then  the  two 
sat  down,  while  Handy  threw  himself  into  a  care- 
less position  near  the  young  man,  so  fJiat  he 
could,  if  he  chose,  read  his  hand  at  a  glance,  with- 
out much  danger  of  detection. 

The  first  stake  was  ten  dollars.  As  the  cards 
fell  one  after  the  other  upon  the  table,  the  game 
showed  evidently  in  favour  of  the  gambler,  and 
terminated  on  his  side. 

"  Double  the  stake,"  was  the  brief  remark  of 
the  young  man,  as  he  threw  down  a  twenty  dollar 
bill. 

The  gambler  matched  it  in  silence.  This  game 
like  the  first,  resulted  in  favor  of  Ware. 

"Double  again,"  said  the  loser,  laying  down 
forty  dollars. 

"  Double  it  is,"  responded  Ware,  mechanically, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  words. 

The  stranger  played  now  with  care  and  delibe- 
ration. But  his  skill  was  in  vain.  The  stakes  were 
soon  appropriated  by  his  opponent. 


COMPANIONS   IN   EVIL.  123 

"  Double,"  fell  from  his  lips  in  a  firm  tone,  as 
this  result  followed  his  more  earnest  effort  to  win. 

"Double,  of  course,"  was  answered  with  an  air 
of  confidence. 

Many  of  the  passengers,  who  had  looked  on  at 
first  carelessly,  now  began  to  note  the  contest  with 
a  livelier  interest,  gathering  around  the  table  and 
watching  each  card  that  was  played,  and  calcu- 
lating the  result  of  every  game,  which  regularly 
terminated  as  the  first  had  done.  Each -time  the 
stakes  were  doubled,  until,  finally,  they  rose  to 
twenty  thousand  dollars  on  each  side.  A  breath- 
less interest  pervaded  the  little  group  of  spectators 
eagerly  watching  the  result  of  the  game  that  was 
to  assign  to  one  party  or  the  other  the  large 
sum  so  madly  risked  by  the  infatuated  young 
man.  As  before,  the  cards  came  up  in  favor  of 
Ware. 

"  Double,"  was  the  hoarse  response  to  this,  and 
again  the  contest  was  renewed.  Forty  thousand 
dollars  on  each  side  now  gave  to  both  a  strong 
incentive  to  note  well  each  card  before  it  left  the 
hand.  Among  the  spectators  of  this  exciting 
scene,  none  seemed  so  little  concerned  as  the 
companion  of  Ware,  who  stood  obliquely  oppo- 
site, and  occasionally  cast  toward  him  a  look  of 
indifference. 

A  few  minutes  of  breathless  interest  passed,  and 
the  game  terminated  as  before.  The  face  of  the 
loser  grew  pale,  but  he  rallied  himself  instantly, 
Jrew  forth  a  package  of  money,  and  throwing  it 
upon  the  table,  said  in  a  firm  voice — 

"  Double." 

Half  whispered  expressions  of  surprise  passed 
through  the  little  group  at  this,  and  one  of  them 
moved  off  quietly  and  left  the  cabin.  In  about  a 
minute  he  returned  with  the  Captain,  who  took 
his  place  among  the  spectators,  and  silently 


BELL    MARTIN. 


awaited  the  result  of  the  game.  It  was  played  on 
both  sides  with  great  care  and  deliberation,  but 
there  were  odds  against  the  young  man  with 
which  it  was  folly  to  contend.  When  the  last 

I          card  was  thrown  upon  the  table,  it  showed  the 

j          game  to  have  terminated  as  the  rest. 

Following  this  was  an  instantaneous  gesture  of 
despair,  and  a  motion  to  spring  from  the  table  by 
the  loser,  when  his  eye  caught  a  most  unexpected 
movement  in  the  Captain  of  the  steamboat,  who 
had  sprung  forward,  and  grasped  in  both  hands 
the  heavy  stakes,  amounting  to  about  one  hundred 
and  sixty  thousand  dollars.  As  he  did  this,  Han- 
dy jumped  across  the  table,  and,  uttering  a  most 
bitter  imprecation,  seized  the  Captain  by  the 

>  throat.  A  general  scene  of  confusion  followed, 
which  ended  in  the  passengers  all  taking  sides 
with  the  Captain  against  Ware  and  Handy,  who 
made  attempts  to  use  both  knives  and  pistols,  but 
were  prevented.  Several  of  the  deck  hands  were 
then  called  in,  and  the  two  men  secured.  Follow- 
ing this  came  a  jury  of  passengers,  called  by  the 
Captain,  to  inquire  into  the  whole  proceeding  that 
had  ended  so  disastrously  to  the  foolish  young'man. 
who  had  been  induced  to  risk  money  that  was 
not  his  own.  Two  individuals  testified,  positive- 
ly, that  they  had  observed  Handy,  or  Haines,  as 
lie  had  booked  himself,  make  signs  of  various 
kinds  to  his  companion,  during  the  progress  of 
every  game — and  that  his  position  was  not  only 

I  such  as  to  give  him  a  sight  of  the  young  man's 
hand,  but  that  he  had,  after  every  deal,  been  seen 
stealthily  glancing  towards  his  cards. 

Fully  satisfied  as  to  their  guilt,  the  Captain  re- 
stored to  the  young  man  the  heavy  sum  he  had 
lost,  with  a  word  of  advice  as  to  future  operations. 
He  then  went  out,  and  remained  about  five  mi- 


COMPANIONS   IN   EVIL. 


225 


nutes.  When  he  came  in,  he  was  fojiowed  by 
four  stout  men — deck  hands. 

"  There  they  are,"  he  said,  pointing  to  Ware 
and  Handy,  who  were  seated  in  the  cabin  with 
their  arms  pinioned  behind  them.  "  Let  them  be 
put  on  shore  at  once." 

"  Not  at  night,  Captain  ?"  one  of  the  passengers 
said. 

"  Yes,  sir,  at  night.  I  never  allow  a  gambling 
swindler  to  remain  on  board  the  Gulnare  more 
than  ten  minutes,  after  I  have  found  him  out,  day 
or  night.  The  boat  is  now  running  as  near  to  the 
shore  as  possible.  Come,  move  quick,  my  gentle- 
men !" 

Two  stout  fellows,  at  each  side,  left  little  room 
for  resistance.  In  a  few  minutes,  the  companions 
in  evil  were  hurried  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  and 
rowed  quickly  to  the  shore.  There  they  were 
left,  with  their  baggage.  It  was  near  the  hour  of 
midnight — the  sky  heavily  overcast  with  clouds, 
and  they  perfectly  unacquainted  with  the  country 
around  them,  or  its  relation  to  known  places.  As 
the  boat,  which  had  conveyed  them  to  the  shore, 
shot  back  to  the  steamer,  and  she  moved  off  and 
became  soon  lost  to  view,  they  shrunk  closer  to- 
gether— while  a  sudden  fear  passed  over  them 
with  an  icy  shudder. 

They  had  stood  irresolute  for  nearly  five  mi- 
nutes, when  a  low  growl,  and  a  slight  movement 
in  the  under  brush,  caused  the  hair  of  each  to 
rise.  Two  bright  eye-balls  were  next  seen  glis- 
tening within  a  few  feet  of  them.  Handy's  pre- 
sence of  mind  prompted  him  to  draw  a  pistol  and 
fire.  A  loud  howl  of  pain  followed  the  report,  an- 
swered by  a  dozen  responses  in  various  direc- 
tions near  and  more  remote,  which  told  the  fear- 
ful tale  that  they  were  surrounded  by  wolves. 

"  We  must  kindle  a  fire  as  quickly  as  possible," 
11* 


BELL    MARTIN. 

whispered  Handy,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  and  following 
the  word  by  the  action,  poured  a  little  powder  into 
nis  pistol  and  pressed  in  loosely  some  paper. 
Then  he  drew  a  whole  newspaper  from  his  pocket 
and  fired  the  pistol  into  it.  In  a  moment  or  two 
it  was  in  a  blaze.  Leaves,  small  twigs,  and  pieces 
of  dry  wood  were  added  to  this,  and  soon  a  bright 
fire  was  lighting  up  the  dark  and  gloomy  forest, 
but  rendering  darker  and  denser  "the  black  ob- 
scurity beyond  the  small  circle  of  their  vision.  By 
feeding  this  fire  all  night,  they  kept  themselves 
safe  from  prowling  wild  beasts.  Morning  at  last 
broke,  and  soon  after  they  were  taken  off  by 
another  steamboat,  and  conveyed  to  the  place 
for  which  they  had  at  first  set  out.  During  the 
remainder  of  the  voyage,  they  felt  little  inclined  to 
look  at  a  card,  much  less  to  handle  one. 

On  arriving  at  New  Orleans,  they  found  an  ac- 
count in  the  newspapers,  of  the  affray  hinted  at  as 
having  occurred  at  Natchez,  with  themselves  de- 
scribed as  the  principal  actors  in  it,  and  a  reward 
for  their  apprehension.  The  young  man,  who 
had  been  stabbed  by  Handy,  had  since  died. 
Their  assumed  disguise  it  was  now  rendered  ne- 
cessary to  retain,  and  they  also  felt  it  prudent  to 
forsake  old  haunts  and  seek  new  ones.  The  un- 
expected termination  of  affairs  on  board  the  Gul- 
nare  had  chagrined  and  disappointed  them  severe- 
ly— more  especially,  as  it  left  them  almost  penni- 
less. 

On  the  second  day  of  their  return,  Ware  receiv- 
ed a  letter  from  his  wife.  It  ran  thus : 

"  My  DEAR  HUSBAND, — Do  not  think  that  I  am  to 
blame  because  this  letter  contains  no  money. 
Father  not  only  suspects  the  fact  of  my  having 
been  in  the  habit  of  sending  you  supplies  of  cash, 
but  has  made  himself  so  certain  of  it,  in  some  way, 


COMPANIONS   IN   EVIL.  127 

that  he  no  longer  entrusts  me  with  any — telling 
me,  when  I  ask  for  money,  to  go  and  purchase 
what  I  want,  and  have  the  bills  sent  to  him.  I 
have  delayed  writing  for  some  time,  in  the  hope 
that  I  might  be  able  to  get  something  for  you,  but 
I  have  delayed  in  vain.  But  you  say  that  your 
business  begins  to  prosper,  and  that  you  are  much 
encouraged  in  looking  ahead.  How  glad  I  am  of 
this — and  for  two  reasons.  One  is,  because  you 
will  not  need,  and  therefore  not  feel,  in  a  very  ; 
short  time,  the  withdrawal  of  the  little  assistance  \ 
I  have  been  able  to  render  you ;  and  the  other  is.  ', 
because  I  see  reason  to  promise  myself  a  speedy 
restoration  to  your  arms.  O,  Henry,  you  do  not 
know  how  earnestly  I  desire  to  see  your  face. 
You  fill  all  my  waking  thoughts,  and  my  dreams 
at  night.  Why  do  you  not  say 'come?'  How 
quickly,  were  that  word  uttered,  would  I  leave  all,  ; 
and  fly  to  you !  Leave  all ! — Alas  !  how  can  I 
leave  my  dear  little  ones  ]  My  heart  grows  faint 
when  I  think  of  it.  But  why  should  I  hesitate  1 
I  shall  leave  them  surrounded  by  every  circum- 
stance that  can  minister  to  their  happiness ;  and 
they  will  soon  forget  their  mother.  The  greater 
pain  will  be  mine,  not  theirs.  My  desire  to  linger 
with  them  is  a  selfish  one.  Duty  calls  me  to  my 
husband's  side.  Deeply  do  I  feel  this.  Let  me 
come,  then,  Henry!  Do  write  to  me,  and  say 
*  come !' 

Ever  yours,  BELL." 


128 


BELL   MARTIN. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


A    RASH   STEP. 

ABOUT  one  month  from  the  day  Bell  wrote  to 
her  husband,  she  received  the  following  answer : 

"DEAR  BELL, — Your  last  has  been  received,  and 
I  at  once  respond  to  your  desire  and  say  « come.' 
Since  I  wrote  to  you,  my  business  has  improved 
a  little,  and  I  feel  encouraged  to  hope  for  success. 
I  cannot,  however,  leave  New  Orleans  for  the  pur- 
pose of  meeting  you  at  Baltimore,  or  any  inter- 
mediate place.  You  will  have  to  come  alone. 
Can  you  venture  to  do  so  ?  I  think  you  may. 
Go  to  Baltimore,  and  there  take  passage  for 
Wheeling.  At  that  place  you  can  go  on  board 
of  some  boat  bound  for  Louisville,  from  whence 
you  will  come  directly  here  by  the  same  mode 
of  conveyance.  Write  me  from  Louisville,  a  day 
or  two  before  you  leave  there,  and  mention  the 
boat  in  which  you  intend  taking  passage,  so 
that  I  can  meet  you  on  your  arrival.  I  feel  very 
anxious  to  see  you.  Many  happy  days,  I  trust, 
are  in  store  for  us.  In  the  hope  of  soon  looking 
upon  your  dear  face,  I  now  say  farewell.  Come 
quickly. 

Truly  and  affectionately  yours, 

HENRY." 

Bell  read  this  letter  over  and  over  again,  linger- 
ing upon  each  passage  in  which  she  could  find  a 
tender  allusion  to  herself,  and  treasuring  up  the 
words  as  precious.  While  still  holding  it  in  her 
hand,  two  little  children  came  bounding  playfully 


1* — > 
I 

A    RASH   STEP.  129 

into  the  room,  and  ran  up  to  her  side.  One,  the 
eldest,  was  a  bright  boy,  over  whom  six  summers 
had  passed  pleasantly ;  the  other  was  a  girl,  with 
mild,  pleasant  eyes,  and  a  sweet  young  face,  on 
which  smiles  played  as  often  as  ripples  over  the 
yielding  surface  of  a  quiet  lake.  As  they  stood  by 
her,  looking  up  into  her  countenance,  their  eyes 
sparkling  with  filial  confidence  and  affection,  the 
thought  of  leaving  them  made  her  waver  in  her 
purpose. 

"  Why  not  take  them  with  me  1"  she  asked  her- 
self, almost  involuntarily. 

"  No — no — no  !"  was  the  instant  reply  to  this. 
"  I  have  no  right  to  remove  them  from  a  happy 
home,  for  one,  by  myself,  all  untried,  and  which 
may  prove,  even  to  me,  a  place  of  privation  and 
wretchedness.  No— no — no  !  Here  they  must 
and  shall  remain.  And  I  must  go.  Duty  and 
affection  call  me,  and  I  cannot  disregard  the  sum- 
mons, nor  linger  in  dread  of  the  violent  pangs  that 
must  attend  my  separation  from  these  dearly  be- 
loved and  treasured  ones." 

Stooping  down,  and  kissing  each  of  her  children 
with  fervent  tenderness,  and  dropping,  in  spite  of 
herself,  a  tear  upon  each  fair  young  cheek,  she 
bade  them  return  to  their  plays,  when  they  bound- 
ed off,  as  light  and  gay  as  birds  in  the  pleasant 
sunshine. 

"  Happy  creatures !"  she  murmured,  as  they 
vanished  from  her  presence.  "  Once  I  was  like 
you.  Heaven  grant  that  you  may  never  be  like 
me!" 

For  nearly  an  hour  after  the  children  had  gone 
out,  did  Bell  sit,  in  deep  and  anxious  thought.  At 
the  end  of  that  period  she  arose,  with  a  "hurried 
movement,  as  if  the  decision  on  a  long  debated 
course  of  action  had  been  made,  and  putting  on 
her  bonnet  and  shawl,  left  the  house,  without 


130  BELL    MARTIN. 

mentioning  to  any  one  her  intention  of  going  out 
In  half  an  hour  she  entered  the  house  of  Mary 
Lane. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Bell,"  was  Mary's 
affectionate  greeting,  kissing,  as  she  spoke,  the 
cheeK  of  her  afflicted  friend.  For  years,  their  in 
tercourse  had  been  as  equals  and  friends — or, 
rather,  as  sisters,  who  loved  each  other  tenderly. 

"I  have  an  especial  favor  to  ask  of  you,  Mary," 
said  Bell,  after  she  was  seated.  "  A  favor  such  as 
I  have  never  asked  of  you  before,  and  shall  never 
ask  again.  If  in  your  power,  you  must  not  refuse 
it,  Mary." 

"  I  can  refuse  you  nothing,  Bell.  Speak  your 
request  freely,"  was  Mary's  reply. 

An  embarrassing  pause  of  a  moment  or  two  fol- 
lowed, and  then  Bell  said — 

"  Of  late  my  father  has  refused  to  let  me  have 
any  money  to  use  myself.  If  I  ask  for  it,  he  tells 
me  to  go  and  buy  whatever  I  want,  and  have  the 
bills  sent  to  him." 

"  You  know  the  reason  of  this,  Bell,  and  cannot 
blame  him." 

"I  do  not  blame  him,  Mary;  nor  can  I  ex^ct 
him  under  all  the  circumstances,  to  act  differently. 
But  what  I  wish  to  say  is  this.  I  want,  and  must 
have,  one  hundred  dollars.  If  I  ask  him  for  it,  he 
will,  I  know,  refuse  me,  under  the  belief  that  I 
wish  to  send  it  to  my  husband.  Now,  Mary,  can 
I  get  this  sum  from  you  ?" 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Mary  felt  embar- 
rassed by  a  request  from  Bell.  She  had  the  money, 
and  she  knew  that  Bell  was  aware  that  she  had 
then  in  the  house,  in  gold  double  the  sum  asked, 
which  had  been  given  to  her  at  various  times  by 
her  husband.  Not  that  she  valued  the  money  more 
than  she  regarded  Bell's  necessity.  But  she  did 
not  feel  that'it  would  be  right  for  her  to  give  it  for 


A   RASH   STEP.  131 

the  use  of  a  man  like  Henry  Ware,  to  whom  she 
very  naturally  concluded  Bell  wished  to  send  the 
money  she  asked.  While  the  struggle  between  a 
sense  of  duty  and  her  desire  to  meet  Bell's  wishes 
was  going  on  in  her  mind,  Bell  sat  looking  her 
steadily  in  the  face. 

"  And  so  you  are  not  willing  to  grant  my  earnest 
request?"  she  said,  breaking  in  upon  Mary's  silent 
indecision  of  mind. 

"I  will  grant  you  any  thing  in  my  power, 
which  it  is  right  that  I  should  grant,"  replied 
Mary.  "But  this  I  cannot  do,  unless  you  assure 
me  that  you  will  not  send  the  money  to  Mr. 
Ware." 

"  That  such  a  disposition  will  not  be  made  of 
it,  I  can  most  solemnly  assure  you-  I  want  the 
money  for  my  own  use." 

"Then  you  shall  have  it  in  welcome,"  was  the 
cheerful,  smiling  reply  of  Mary. 

In  a  little  while  she  left  the  room,  and  returned 
in  a  few  minutes  with  ten  gold  eagles,  which  she 
placed  in  the  hands  of  Bell,  saying,  as  she  did  so, 

"  Take  them  in  welcome.  But'how  much  more 
gladly  would  I  give  them,  if  they  had  the  power  to 
restore  to  you  the  happy  heart  that  once  beat  in 
your  bosom." 

"  That  they  can  never  do — nor  can  any  other 
earthly  means.  Still  the  sum  you  have  so  gen- 
erously placed  in  my  hands,  Mary,  will,  I  trust  do 
a  great  deal  toward  accomplishing  that  which  you 
and  I  so  much  desire,"  said  Bell,  in  a  tone  some- 
what cheerful. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Bell  T  asked  Mary,  in 
surprise. 

"  Can  I  trust  you  with  a  secret  ?" 

"  You  have  never  had  cause  to  think  other- 
wise." 


132  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  True.  But  mine  is  a  secret  which  I  do  not 
know  that  even  you  would,  feel  bound  to  keep." 

There  was  something  in  the  words,  manner,  and 
expression  of  Bell,  that  inspired  Mary  with  a  feel- 
ing of  sudden  alarm.  For  a  moment  or  two  the 
thought  that  her  mind  was  wandering,  startled  her 
feelings  with  a  sudden  shock.  But  the  steady  eye 
and  calm  countenance  of  Bell  soon  dispelled  the 
impression. 

"  Do  not,"  she  said,  as  her  thoughts  rallied,  and 
she  became  assured  that  Bell  contemplated  some 
act  of  which  all  would  disapprove,  "  let  me  entreat 
you,  act  in  any  important  matter,  without  full  con- 
sultation with  your  friends." 

"  Why  should  I  consult  friends,  Mary,  when  I 
have  resolved  to  do  a  thing  which  no  one,  not 
even  you,  will  approve  ?" 

"  O,  Bell !  Surely  you  do  not  intend  taking 
any  important  step  with  such  injudicious  rash- 
ness." 

"  I  have  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  do  the  thing 
to  which  I  have  alluded,"  was  the  firm  response. 

"  What  is  it,  Bell  ?"  asked  Mary,  imploringly. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  but  upon  one  condition." 

"  What  is  that  1" 

"  Secrecy." 

"  Not  knowing  what  you  intend,  I  should  not 
like  to  bind  myself  to  secrecy." 

"  Then  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  Do  not  act  with  such  deliberate  rashness, 
Bell,"  urged  Mary,  drawing  her  arm  tenderly 
about  her  neck,  and  looking  her  earnestly  in  the 
face,  her  own  eyes  suffused  with  tears. 

"I  have  calmly  counted  the  cost,  Mary." 

"  Will  you  not  confide  in  me  7" 

"  Not  unless  you  pledge  yourself  to  secrecy." 

"  Then,  as  there  is  "no  other  course,  I  thus 
pledge  myself." 


A    RASH   STEP.  133 

"I  am  glad  you  have  done  so,  Mary,"  said 
Bell,  in  a  steady  voice,  "  for  I  desire  most  earnest- 
ly to  open  my  heart  to  you,  as  the  only  one 
who  can  now  truly  feel  for  me.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  join  Mr.  Ware  in  New  Orleans.  He 
has — " 

"Join  Mr.  Ware  in  New  Orleans !"  ejaculated 
Marj",  starting  back  in  surprise  and  alarm,  her 
lace  growing  pale.  "  Bell,  your  mind  is  wander- 
ing." 

"  I  am  perfectly  sane,  Mary,"  replied  Bell  with 
a  feeble  smile,  "and  have  calmly  and  rationally 
weighed  the  whole  matter.  My  husband  is  in 
business  in  New  Orleans,  and  has  written  me 
many  kind  and  affectionate  letters,  and  now  asks 
me  to  join  him  there." 

"  And  your  children  1" 

"  I  shall  leave  them  where  they  are,  at  least  for 
the  present.  I  should  not  think  it  right  to  take 
them  away  from  the  comfortable  home  they  now 
have." 

"  You  do  not  contemplate  going  at  once  ?'' 

"  Yes — I  shall  start  in  a  day  or  two.  There 
are  but  few  preparations  necessary  for  me  to 
make." 

"  Who  will  accompany  you  ?" 

"  I  shall  go  alone." 

"  Alone !  Surely,  Bell,  you  cannot  be  in  your 
right  mind !" 

"  Perhaps  not !"  was  the  low,  mournful  response, 
made  after  a  pause.  "  Would  it  be  any  wonder,  if 
I  were  to  lose  my  senses  ?" 

"  Then  why  act  so  rashly,  Bell  ?  Why  delibe- 
rately do  a  thing  that  you  know  all  your  friends 
will  disapprove?  Trouble  has  obscured  your 
mind,  so  that  you  are  hardly  capable  of  rightly 
deciding  such  a  question  as  is  now  presented  to 
you.  Hesitate,  then — and  let  those  in  whom  you 
12 


>  BELL   MARTIN. 

can  confide,  determine  the  matter  for  you.  Do 
not  jour  father  and  mother  Jove  you?  Have 
they  not  ever  sought  your  happiness  with  wise 
and  careful  solicitude]  Still  repose  confidence 
in  them.  Go  to  them,  and  tell  them  your  earnest 
desire  to  join  your  husband,  and,  if  such  really 
be  your  resolution,  tell  them,  that  if  they  will 
not  give  their  consent  for  you  to  do  so,  you 
will  liave  to  go  without  their  consent.  Thek 
you  will  secure  protection  from  your  father,  and 
put  it  in  his  power,  if  you  should  go,  to  shield 
you  from  suffering  and  privation  while  among 
strangers." 

"  I  do  nSt  expect  suffering  and  privation.  My 
husband  has  greatly  changed,  and  is  now  in  a 
good  business." 

"  So  he  writes  you." 

"  Mary,"  replied  Bell,  in  a  changed  and  some- 
what offended  tone.  "  I  am  not  prepared  to  hear 
any  question  of  my  absent  husband's  sincerity  and 
truth.  I  am  the  party  most  concerned,  and  I  am 
perfectly  willing  to  confide  in  him." 

"  But,  granting  that,  Bell,  you  cannot  be  safe 
from  all  contingencies.  How  much  better  that 
your  father's  care  should  still  be  over  you." 

"  As  I  said  before,  Mary,  I  have  fully  counted 
the  cost,  and  am  prepared  for  the  worst.  I  can- 
not  be  more  wretched  with  my  husband,  than  I 
am  away  from  him.  My  father  will  never  give 
his  consent  for  me  to  leave  Philadelphia,  and  there- 
fore I  wish,  above  all  things,  to  shun  the  pain  of 
in  interview  with  him  and  my  mother.  Do  not, 
then,  let  me  beg  of  you,  urge  me  further  on  this 
subject.  I  have  fully  settled  the  matter  in  my 
Dwn  mind,  and,  therefore,  nothing  that  you  can 
possibly  say,  will  have  any  influence  with  me. 

"  I  must  allude  to  your  children,  Bell,"  urged 


A   RASH   STEP.  135 

t/»e  anxious  Mary.  "  How  can  you  leave  dear 
ttenry  and  Fanny  1" 

"  Do  not  speak  of  them,  Mary !  Do  not  speak 
of  them !"  replied  Bell,  quickly,  and  in  alow,  husky 
whisper.  "  I  have  counted  that  cost,  too.  You 
urge  me  in  vain." 

As  she  said  this,  Bell  arose  and  moved  toward 
the  door,  but  paused,  with  an  irresolute  air,  as  she 
placed  her  hand  upon  it,  looking,  as  she  did  so, 
toward  Mary  with  an  expression  of  deep  tender- 
ness, while  her  eyes  grew  dim.  She  remained 
thus  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  returning  to 
where  Mary  still  stood,  she  threw  her  arms  sud- 
denly around  her  neck,  and  let  her  head  droop 
upon  her  bosom.  A  gush  of  tears,  and  a  fit  of 
wild,  uncontrollable  sobbing,  followed.  It  was 
many  minutes  before  this  subsided.  When  she  at 
last  grew  calm,  Bell  drew  her  arms  around  the 
friend  and  companion  of  her  childhood  and  the 
earnest  sympathizer  in  the  sorrows  of  her  maturer 
years,  and  held  her  in  a  long,  strained  embrace. 
At  last  she  looked  up,  with  a  feeble  smile,  mur- 
mured "  God  bless  you,  Mary !"  kissed  her  lips, 
cheeks  and  forehead,  earnestly,  and  then  turning 
away,  hurriedly  left  the  house. 

As  for  Mary,  her  heart  was  burdened  with  a 
double  weight.  Grief  for  the  rash  step  which  Bell 
was  about  to  take,  and  regret  that  she  had,  unwit- 
tingly, furnished  her  with  the  means  of  taking  that 
step.  And  to  make  it  worse,  was  the  pledge  of 
secrecy  which  had  been  extorted  from  her,  and 
which  she  was  unable  to  decide  whether  she 
should  violate  or  keep. 

"  It  was  late  in  the  evening  before  her  husband 
returned,  to  whom  she  at  once  related  the  sub- 
stance of  her  interview  with  Bell. 

"  It  will  never  do  to  let  her  put  her  determi- 


BELL   MARTIN. 

nation  into  practice,"  was  Mr.  Lane's  prompt  f* 
mark. 

"  But  I  am  pledged  to  secrecy." 

"  Under  all  the  circumstances,  Mary,  you  should 
not  consider  your  promise  binding." 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so.  Most  gladly  would  I 
avail  myself  of  any  just  plea  for  breaking  it." 

"  It  will  fall  upon  me,  I  suppose,  to  relieve 
you  from  all  doubt  and  responsibility  in  this 
matter,"  said  Mr.  Lane,  after  some  moments  of 
reflection. 

"How  so?" 

"  I  shall  feel  it  to  be  my  duty  to  inform  Mi 
Martin  of  Bell's  intention  so  soon  as  he  comes  to 
the  store,  to-morrow  morning.  Have  you  any 
objection  to  my  doing  sol" 

"  None  in  the  world,"  was  Mary's  reply. 

But  Mr.  Lane's  good  resolution  was  put  into 
practice  too  late.  Before  Mr.  Martin  came  down 
to  the  store  the  next  morning,  Bell  had  been 
missed,  and,  on  looking  into  her  room,  a  letter 
was  found  upon  her  table,  announcing  to  her 
father  and  mother  the  distressing  intelligence 
that  she  had  left  them  to  follow  her  husband. 
Before  they  had  time  to  recover  from  this  shock, 
and  to  determine  what  course  to  pursue,  a  letter 
from  Fanny's  husband,  in  New  York,  brought  the 
melancholy  tidings  of  her  dangerous  illness,"  and  a 
request  that  her  father,  mother  and  sister  would 
'come  on  immediately  if  they  hoped  to  see  her 
alive.  Whether  to  go  in  pursuit  of  Bell,  or  to  re- 
pair to  New  York,  was  a  question  which  agitated 
Mr.  Martin's  mind  only  for  a  short  time,  when  he 
determined  on  the  latter  course,  resolving,  how- 
ever, that  as  soon  as  he  could  return,  to  proceed 
at  once  to  New  Orleans,  and  bring  his  daughter 
home. 


A    RASH   STEP.  lit  ' 

On  his  arrival,  with  Mrs.  Martin,  in  New  York, 
he  found  that  Fanny  was  lingering  on  the  brink 
of  the  grave.  Five  days  did  they  hover  around 
her  bed,  but  all  their  anxious  hopes  were  in  vain. 
She  passed  away  at  the  end  of  that  period,  to  be 
no  more  seen  on  earth. 

On  returning  to  Philadelphia,  other  matters  of 
serious  import  demanded  the  attention  of  Mr 
Martin,  who  was,  in  consequence,  prevented  from 
proceeding  at  once  to  the  South  for  Bell,  as  he 
bad  determined. 


i38  BULL   MARTIN. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE   HARDEST   TRIAL. 

WHEN  Bell  parted  from  Mary,  it  was  with  the 
resolution  fixed  in  her  mind,  to  put  her  determi- 
nation to  leave  Philadelphia,  into  execution  on  the 
following  morning.  It  had  occurred  to  her,  that 
Mary  would  inform  her  husband  of  her  intended 
journey,  and  that  he  would  feel  himself  bound  to 
communicate  the  fact  to  her  father.  And  it  was  to 
prevent  this  availing  any  thing  toward  detaining 
her,  that  she  resolved  not  to  put  off  her  departure 
for  a  single  day.  This  was  the  reason  why,  in 
parting  from  Mary,  whose  face  she  might  never 
see  again,  she  exhibited  so  much  emotion. 

After  leaving  the  house  of  Mary,  she  hurried 
home,  and  set  about  maKing  preparations  for  her 
journ-ey.  The  departure  of  the  steamboat  at  the 
early  hour  of  six,  afforded  a  good  opportunity  for 
her  to  get  away  unseen  by  any  of  the  family,  pro- 
vided she  was  unencumbered  with  baggage.  But 
it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  take  as"  many  of 
her  clothes  as  possible ;  and  to  do  so,  at  least  one 
large  trunk  would  be  required.  But  how  this  was 
to  be  removed  from  the  house,  presented  itself  as 
a  serious  difficulty.  Sometimes  she  thought  it 
best  to  tie  up  a  few  articles  of  wearing  apparel 
into  a  compact  bundle,  such  as  she  could  easily 
take  in  her  hand.  But  a  little  reflection  convinced 
her  that  this  would  not  answer.  It  was  very  de- 
sirable, she  felt,  to  be  able  to  pass  along  without 
attracting  particular  attention — and  as  she  would 
have,  necessarily,  to  put  up  frequently  at  public* 


THE   HARDEST   TRIAL.  139 

houses,  the  fact  of  her  having  no  trunk,  would  be 
looked  upon  with  more  or  less  suspicion,  and 
might  subject  her  to  unpleasant  incidents.  And 
besides  this,  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  car- 
ry, in  this  way,  a  sufficient  quantity  of  clothing. 
The  trunk  must  be  taken — that  she  fully  deter- 
mined. But  how  it  was  to  be  conveyed  away 
from  the  house,  in  the  morning,  without  being 
seen  by  some  one,  was  more  than  she  could  tell. 

Necessity,  under  all  circumstances,  is  the  mother 
of  inventions.  So  it  proved  in  the  case  of  Bell. 
While  pondering  over  the  difficulty  that  had  pre- 
sented itself,  she  at  last  thought  of  the  gate  at- 
tached to  the  large  yard  and  garden  belonging  to 
the  house,  and  of  the  many  places  for  the  tempo- 
rary concealment  of  a  trunk  which  the  alcoves  in 
the  garden  afforded.  Soon  after  this  occurred  to 
her,  she  had  her  plan  of  proceeding  matured — 
which  was  this.  After  the  servants  and  all  had 
retired  for  the  night,  she  would  get  a  large  empty 
trunk,  and  carry"  it  out  into  the  garden  near  the 
gate,  which  opened,  on  to  a  small  back  street. 
Then  she  would  take  her  clothes  down  in  bundles, 
moving  with  a  noiseless  tread,  and  pack  into  the 
trunk  as  many  of  them  as  it  would  hold.  All  this 
was  accomplished  in  the  most  perfect  silence  and 
secrecy,  and  the  well-filled  trunk  left  concealed 
near  the  gate.  Her  plan  was  to  steal  out  into  the 
garden  as  soon  as  it  was  daylight,  and  passing 
from  the  gate,  procure  a  porter,  and  have  her 
trunk  removed  before  any  one  should  be  stirring 
in  the  house. 

When  all  these  preliminary  arrangements  were 
completed,  Bell  retired  to  her  bed,  after  having 
penned  a  hurried  note  to  her  father  and  mother, 
but  not  to  sleep.  By  her  side  lay  her  two  chil- 
dren, about  to  be  forsaken  by  their  mother.  Into 
their  innocent  faces,  beautified  by  calm  and  holy 


140  BELL   MARTIN. 

sleep,  she  would  look  often,  and  for  many  minutes 
at  a  time,  bending  over  them,  and  almost  holding 
her  breath,  lest  they  should  be  awakened,  and  only 
removing  from  her  position  to  prevent  the  warm 
tears  that  were  dimming  her  eyes  from  falling 
upon  their  glowing  cheeks.  At  times,  the  mother's 
love  ruled  so  strongly  in  her  mind,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  part  with 
them.  Then  she  would  picture  to  her  imagina- 
tion their  disappointment  at  not  seeing  her  as 
usual  when  they  awoke  in  the  morning;  their 
grief  at  being  told  that  she  had  gone  away  fron. 
them,  no  more  to  return— and  the  drooping  of 
their  young  hearts,  as  day  after  day  went  by,  and 
the  voice  they  had  loved  so  from  infancy,  and  the 
smile  that  had  been  the  sunlight  of  tfleir  spirits  no 
more  greeted  them.  This  was  her  sorest  trial  and 
it  had  the  effect  more  than  once  to  cause  her  to 
hesitate.  But  other  thoughts  and  other  affections 
soon  came  back  with  a  power  that  could  not  be 
controlled. 

Toward  daylight,  she  sunk  into  a  state  of  half 
unconsciousness,  that  was  neither  wakefulness 
nor  sleep.  From  this  a  horrible  phantasy  of  the 
imagination  startled  her,  and  she  awoke,  uttering 
a  stifled  scream.  As  her  scattered  thoughts  re- 
turned, and  she  was  enabled  to  realize  the  truth 
of  her  condition,  she  perceived  that  the  day  was 
beginning  to  dawn.  Now  had  come  the  hour  of 
severe  trial — the  most  painful,  she  felt  in  her  life — 
for  it  involved  deliberate  action  on  her  part,  that 
would  be  condemned  by  all ;  and  more  than  that 
— the  severing  and  lacerating  of  the  most  tender 
and  sacred  bonds. 

Hastily  rising,  and  endeavoring  to  force  back 
the  thoughts  and  affections  that  pleaded  eagerly 
with  her  to  pause,  she  proceeded  in  the  comple- 
tion of  her  few  last  sad  arrangements  for  parting, 


THE   HARDEST   TRIAL. 


Hi 


pe/naps  for  ever,  from  her  children  and  paients 
and  all  the  associations  that  a  whole  life-time  had 
endeared  to  her.  These  completed,  she  threw  a 
cloak  over  her  shoulders,  drew  a  bonnet  on  her 
head,  and  taking  a  small  bundle  in  her  hand,  made 
a  movement  to  leave  the  room,  without  a  last  look 
at  her  children.  This  she  was  endeavoring,  pur- 
posely, to  avoid,  for  she  felt  herself  unequal  to  the 
trial.  But  the  mother's  heart  was  strong  within 
.ier  bosom.  She  could  not  thus  leave  them.  A 
powerful  arm  seemed  restraining  her.  There  was 
a  pause — a  hesitating  moment — and  then  she 
slowly  turned  and  went  to  the  bed  on  which  her 
children  lay,  still  hushed  in  gentle  sleep.  Pushing 
back  her  bonnet,  she  bent  down  over  them,  rest- 
ing her  arm  upon  the  pillow  that  supported  both 
their  heads,  and  her  own  head  upon  her  hand, 
where  she  remained  for  many  minutes,  gazing 
sadly  and  tenderly  into  their  faces,  unable  to  tear 
herself  away. 

The  sound  of  footsteps  along  the  passage 
aroused  her  from  this  state  of  irresolution,  or 
rather  paralization  of  mind,  to  a  consciousness  of 
the  danger  that  threatened  to  defeat  her  cautiously 
laid  plans.  This  enabled  her  to  break  the  spe!.' 
that  bound  her  to  the  spot  where  lay  the  dear 
treasures  of  an  almost  broken  heart.  Closing  he* 
eyes,  in  order  to  shut  out  for  a  moment,  their 
images  from  her  mind,  she  arose  from  her  position 
on  the  bed,  and  stepped  quickly  to  the  door,  where 
she  stood  listening  to  the  sound  that  had  awaken- 
ed her  fears,  until  it  died  away  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  house.  Fearful  of  trusting  herself  to  look 
again  at  her  children,  though  her  heart  pleaded 
earnestly  for  one  more  glance,  she  opened  her 
chamber  door,  stepped  out  softly,  and  then  hur- 
ried along  the  passages  and  down  the  stairs  with  a 
noiseless  tread,  until  she  reached  the  door  leading 


> 


into  the  yard.  This  she  found  locked,  indicating 
that  no  one  had  yet  gone  from  the  house  in  that 
direction.  Opening  this  door  in  silence,  and  softly 
closing  it  after  her,  she  glided  quickly  away  from 
the  house,  entering  an  alley  thickly  shaded  with 
vines,  so  as  to  be  concealed  from  the  observation 
of  any  one  who  might  have  chanced  to  be  looking 
from  a  window. 

Her  trunk  was  found  where  she  had  left  it  the 
night  before.  Passing  from  the  gate,  and  entering 
the  street  upon  which  it  opened,  she  was  not  long 
in  finding  a  man  who  agreed  to  carry  her  baggage 
to  the  steamboat.  With  him  she  returned'^and 
succeeded  in  getting  her  trunk  off,  unseen  by  any 
member  of  her  father's  family.  A  hurried  walk 
brought  her  to  the  landing.  It  was  about  half  an 
hour  before  the  time  for  starting,  and  the  passen- 
gers were  beginning  to  arrive.  The  sight  of  so 
many  persons,  old  and  young,  male  and  female, 
rapidly  assembling,  awoke  in  her  mind  a  new 
source  of  uneasiness.  She  dreaded  to  lift  her  eyes 
to  each  newly  arriving  face,  lest  it  should  reveal 
one  perfectly  familiar.  Nor  were  her  fears,  on  this 
score,  in  vain.  Before  the  boat  started,  two  or 
three  ladies  with  whom  she  was  on  terms  of  social 
intimacy,  came  on  board,  and  took  their  places  in 
the  cabin  near  where  she  was  sitting.  This 
caused  her  to  shrink  away  in  order  to  avoid  ob- 
servation, while  she  drew  the  folds  of  a  thick  veil 
closer  to  her  face.  She  was  not  fully  successful 
in  her  efforts  to  avoid  observation,  as  she  per- 
ceived by  the  frequent  glances  of  inquiry  and  in- 
terest that  were  cast  toward  her.  Once,  during 
the  passage  down  the  Delaware,  she  noticed  a 
lady  who  was  a  very  intimate  and  beloved  friend, 
after  gazing  upon  her  for  some  time,  rise  from  her 
seat  and  come  toward  her.  For  a  moment  or 
two,  her  heart  paused  in  its  labored  pulsations. 


THE   HARDEST   TRIAL.  143 

But  the  lady  either  changed  her  mind,  or  had  not 
intended  addressing  her,  for  she  passed  by,  seem- 
ingly on  an  errand  to  another  part  of  the  cabin. 
This  warned  her  to  shun  observation  still  more, 
which  she  did  by  taking  a  volume  from  one  of 
the  berths,  and  bending  down  Jow  over  it,  as  if 
deeply  absorbed  in  its  contents.  But  how  far 
away  from  the  unseen  pages  of  that  book,  whose 
very  title  was  all  unread  by  her,  were  her  thoughts 
and  affections !  These  were  not  going  eagerly 
before,  but  returning  back  toward  the  dear  little 
ones  she  had  forsaken.  How  vividly  was  each 
gentle  face  pictured  before  her  !  Not  camly  re- 
posing in  sleep,  as  when  last  she  looked  upon 
them,  but  bathed  in  grief  for  her  loss. 

Each  passing  minute,  as  the  body  was  borne 
farther  and  farther  away  from  her  children,  her 
spirit  was  drawn  nearer,  while  her  heart  j'earned 
over  them  with  an  interest  that  was  intensely 
painful.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  she  could  re- 
frain from  uttering  aloud — 

"My  children!  my  children  !  Treasures  of  my 
heart !  How  can  I  give  you  up  ?" 

Words  of  lamentation,  that  were  repeated  over 
and  over  again,  in  silence  and  in  bitterness  of 
spirit. 

But  onward,  steadily  and  rapidly,  progressed 
the  boat  that  bore  her  away,  increasing,  each 
moment,  the  distance  between  herself  and  her 
forsaken  home — and  making  sadder,  and  oppress- 
ing with  intense  pain,  the  heart  already  too  heav- 
ily burdened. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  excitement  of  the 
joutney — nothing  in  the  hurried  changes  from 
boat  to  land  carriage  and  from  land  carriage  to 
boat  again,  that  could  win  her  mind,  even  for  a 
moment,  away  from  its  sad  visions  of  home. 

In  Baltimore,  under  the  assumed  name  of  John- 


BELL   MARTIN. 

son,  she  took  lodgings  at  the  City  Hotel,  where 
she  spent  the  night — a  night,  the  first  ever  passed 
away  from  her  children— a  night  never  after  for- 
gotten. Need  a  mother  be  told  why  it  was  to  her 
one  of  bitter  agony'?  Only  a  mother's  heart  can 
realize  a  mother's  sufferings,  thus  separated  from 
her  children  !  On  the  following  morning  she  leit 
Baltimore  for  Wheeling,  in  the  fast  line,  and  tra- 
velled night  and  day  until  she  reached  the  banks 
of  the  Ohio.  At  Wheeling  she  took  passage  on 
ooard  of  a  steamboat  for  Louisville,  as  directed  by 
her  husband.  Four  days  spent  in  reaching  the 
last  named  place,  seemed  to  her  like  four  weeks 
— so  eager  was  she  to  get  to  the  end  of  her 
entire  journey,  and  once  more  look  upon  the  face 
that  had  been  hid  from  her  for  three  long  weary 
years. 

From  Louisville,  she  wrote  a  hasty  letter  to  her 
husband,  and  two  days  after  she  had  despatched 
it,  she  started  for  New  Orleans.  Seven  days  more 
passed  lingeringly  away  before  her  long  and  fa- 
tigueing  journey  was  completed.  It  was  midnight 
when  the  heavy  rumbling  and  jarring  of  the  ma- 
chinery ceased,  and  the  shrill,  nerve-thrilling 
shriek  of  the  escaping  steam  told  that  the  boat  had 
arrived  at  the  Crescent  City.  Hurriedly  rising 
from  her  berth,  Mrs.  Ware  dressed  herself  with  all 
possible  speed,  expecting  each  moment  to  hear  her 
name  called.  But  the  servant  passed  in  and  out, 
conveying  a  message  to  this  lady  and  to  that ;  but 
no  inquiry  came  for  her.  "  Surely  he  must  be 
here !"  she  said  to  herself.  But  it  seemed  that  it 
was  not  so.  For  time  passed  steadily  away,  and 
passenger  after  passenger  left  the  boat,  but  no 
voice  asked  for  her.  At  last  the  cold,  sad,  grey 
light  of  the  morning  began  to  break,  and  Mrs. 
Ware  went  out  upon  the  guards,  and  strained  her 
eyes  through  the  yet  undispersed  mists  of  the 


THE   HARDEST   TRIAL.  145 

night,  to  see  if  she  could  not  recognize  her  hus- 
band among  the  few  forms  dimly  seen  upon  the 
shore.  But  she  looked  in  vain.  Slowly  and  al- 
most imperceptibly  was  the  morning  twilight  dis- 
persed, revealing  at  each  moment  more  and  more 
distinctly  the  strange  appearances,  forms  and  faces 
of  a  strange  city.  The  few  slowly  moving  figures 
that  first  "met  her  eye,  passing  to  and  fro  in  the 
misty  air  like  wandering  spirits,  had  given  place 
to  a  crowd  of  human  beings,  some  surveying  with 
idle  curiosity  the  newly  arrived  steamer — others 
hurrying  on  board  with  expectant  faces,  eager  to 
meet  some  looked-for  friend,  wife,  sister  or  bro- 
ther— while  others  went  steadily  by,  scarcely  cast- 
ing a  glance  at  the  stately  vessel. 

Among  all  these  did  Bell  search,  with  anxious 
eyes,  for  her  husband.  Sometimes  her  heart 
would  bound  and  flutter,  as  afar  off  some  new 
form  became  revealed,  the  bearing  of  which  seem- 
ed so  like  her  husband,  that  she  could  hardly  help 
striking  her  hands  together,  and  exclaiming  aloud, 
"  It  is  he !"  But  as  that  form  drew  nearer  and 
nearer,  its  resemblance  to  her  husband  gradually 
faded,  until  her  eyes  turned  disappointed  away 
from  a  face  all  unfamiliar.  Thus  did  the  anxious 
wife  stand  leaning  over  the  guards,  eager  and  ex- 
pectant for  nearly  three  hours,  when  she  was 
obliged  from  faintness  to  retire  to  the  cabin,  and 
seek  a  berth,  where  she  lay  for  nearly  two  hours 
longer,  in  momentary  expectation  of  hearing  the 
sound  of  her  husband's  voice. 

At  last,  through  the  kind  suggestions  and  direc- 
tions of  the  female  servant  attached  to  the  boat, 
Bell  concluded  to  go  to  a  respectable  hotel,  mark- 
ing on  the  books  of  the  steamboat,  opposite  to  the 
entry  of  her  name,  the  house  to  which  she  had 
gone,  so  that  her  husband  could  find  her  when  he 
learned  the  arrival  of  the  boat. 
13 


I  '  "1 

146  BELL   MARTIN 

As  soon  .is  Siie  had  made  this  change,  she  asked 
the  servant  in  attendance  at  her  room  at  the  hotel, 
>  to  bring  her  a  late  newspaper.     Over  this  she 

looked  eagerly,  hoping,  yet  fearing  to  hope,  that 
her  eye  might  fall   upon   something  that  would 
give  her  a  clue  by  which  to  find  her  husband 
',  Almost  the  first  thing  that  attracted  her  notice 

/  was  the  list  of  advertised  letters.     In  this  she  un- 

expectedly found  one  for  herself.  Ringing  hur- 
riedly for  a  servant,  she  despatched,  as  soon  as 
her  summons  was  answered,  a  messenger  for  the 
letter.  It  was  full  half  an  hour  before  it  was 
brought,  during  which  time  she  paced  the  floor 
of  her  chamber  in  a  state  of  painful  excitement. 
Hastily -breaking  the  seal,  so  soon  as  the  servant 
who  had  brought  the  letter  had  left  the  room,  she 
read  with  difficulty,  for  her  hand  shook  so  that 
dhe  could  scarcely  distinguish  a  letter,  the  follow- 
ing note : — 

NEW  ORLEANS, ,  18 — . 

My  dear  Bell — Unexpectedly,  an  entire  change 
has  taken  place  in  my  circumstances,  and  I  have 
been  obliged  to  leave  New  Orleans  for  Galveston, 
in  Texas,  before  your  arrival.  Considerations  of 
personal  safety  have  prompted  me  to  take  this 
hasty  step.  I  need  not  allude  to  the  painful  and 
mortifying  cause.  Take  the  steam-packet,  and 
come  here  without  delay.  I  shall  expect  you  by 
every  new  arrival,  until  I  see  your  long-absent 
but  dear  face.  Do  not  delay  a  moment.  Here  I 
shall  remain,  free  from  molestation,  and  here  be 
able  to  prosecute  without  fear  an  honest  calling. 
Ever  yours,  HENRY. 

The  hand  of  Mrs.  Ware  trembled  so  violently, 
that  the  letter  fell  to  the  floor  the  moment  she  had 
finished  reading  the  last  word.  O,  what  a  heart- 


THE   HARDEST   TRIAL.  147 

sickening  disappointment  did  its  contents  prove  to 
her  !  From  the  momentary  expectation  of  seeing 
him,  to  come  into  the  sudden  consciousness  that 
her  husband  was  still  hundreds  of  miles  away, 
and  that  many  days  must  elapse  before  her  eyes 
would  rest  upon  him,  was  a  painful  shock  to  her 
feelings.  For  a  time  she  felt  weak,  sick  and  ir- 
resolute. Then  her  thoughts  began  to  rally,  and 
she  turned  once  more  to  the  newspaper  from 
which  she  had  gained  intelligence  of  the  letter,  to 
see  if  a  boat  was  up  for  Galveston.  One  was  ad- 
vertised to  go  on  the  next  day.  Her  resolution 
was  at  once  taken  to  avail  herself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity. The  rest  of  the  day  passed  wearily,  and 
the  night  was  spent  in  restless,  feverish,  anxious 
looking  for  the  morning,  with  occasional  brief  pe- 
riods of  unrefreshing  sleep.  —  Morning  at  last, 
came.  At  an  early  hour  she  was  on  board  of  the 
steamboat,  where  she  had  to  remain  until  nearly 
night  before  starting,  tortured  with  eager  impa- 
tience  t)  be  on  her  way. 


t48  BELL    MARTIN 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A   RF,-tINION,   AND   CRUEL   DESERTION. 

AFTER  a  passage  of  many  weary  days,  Mrs. 
Ware  arrived  at  Galveston,  her  last  dollar  expend- 
ed, and  her  heart  trembling  with  fear  lest  some 
new  disappointment  awaited  her.  Happily,  her 
fears  in  this  respect  were  vain.  Her  husband  met 
her  at  the  boat.  The  moment  her  eyes  rested  on 
him,  changed  in  appearance  as  he  was,  and  even 
to  her  sadly  changed  for  the  worse,  she  forgot  the 
circumstances  by  which  she  was  surrounded,  the 
persons  present,  and  all  things  relating  to  the  time 
and  place,  and  flung  herself,  with  a  wild  expres- 
sion of  delight,  into  his  arms. 

To  him,  such  a  public  exhibition  of  affection  was 
any  thing  but  agreeable,  and  he  restrained  and 
checked  her  instantly  with  something  so  icy  cold 
in  his  manner,  that  poor  Bell's  heart  felt  sick  as  it 
had  often,  alas !  too  often  felt  before  when  repelled 
in  like  manner.  Still,  there  were  expressions  of 
pleasure,  strong  expressions,  at  seeing  her,  and 
instant  kind  inquiries  as  to  how  she  had  been,  and 
how  she  had  fared  on  her  long  journey.  Then 
came  a  hurried  removal  to  one  of  the  hotels,  where 
she  was  received  into  a  very  comfortable  room, 
which,  by  special  favor,  her  husband  had  obtain- 
ed, in  expectation  of  her  arrival. 

"  Dear — dear  Henry  !"  she  said,  as  soon  as  they 
were  alone,  leaning"  her  head  upon  his  shoulders, 
and  bursting  into  tears — "  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
constantly,  for  three  long  years,  my  heart  has 
longed  to  see  your  face — to  h«»ar  your  voice — to 


A   RE-UNION,    AND   CRUEL   DESERTION.  149 

move  once  more  by  your  side.  Thank  heaven! 
we  are  again  united." 

"  Never,  I  trust,  to  part  again,"  was  the  reply, 
in  an  assumed  tone  of  tenderness. 

"Never — never!"  murmured  Bell.  "For  my- 
self, 1  am  ready  to  go  with  you  to  prison  and  to 
deatn." 

" How  did  you  leave  our  dear  little  ones,  Bell?" 
her  husband  asked,  after  a  few  moments. 

•'  Well.  But  oh  !  what  a  trial.  I  wonder  that 
my  heart  did  not  break  in  the  struggle  of  separa- 
tion !  Truly,  mine  is  a  hard  lot !"  And  the  tears 
gushed  forth  afresh.  "  But  may  we  not  hope  one 
day  to  have  them  with  us,  dear  husband  ?" 

••That  time  may  come,  Bell.  But  it  cannot 
come  speedily,"  was  the  reply.  "  Your  father  coulu 
never  be  induced  to  give  them  up.  And  it  will, 
perhaps,  never  be  in  our  power  to  demand  them. 
But  let  us  not  burden  this  hour  with  thoughts  so 
painful  and  oppressive." 

Then,  after  a  few  moments,  he  asked — 

"  Tell  me,  Bell,  all  about  your  getting  away 
from  Philadelphia,  and  the  particulars  of  your  long 
journey?" 

In  accordance  with  this  request,  Mrs.  Ware 
gave  her  husband  an  account  of  her  preparations 
tor  coming  away,  her  departure,  and  a  history  of 
what  occurred  to  her  during  the  period  that 
elapsed  from  the  time  she  left  Philadelphia,  until 
her  arrival  at  Galveston.  Beginning  with  the  bor- 
rowing of  one  hundred  dollars  from  Mary,  and 
ending  with  an  account  of  the  expenditure  of  her 
last  farthing.  In  the  beginning  and  ending  of  this 
story,  her  husband  felt  the  strongest — indeed,  it 
misrht  be  said,  the  only  interest.  Deeply  was  he 
disappointed  to  find  that  Bell  was  upon  his  hands, 
penniless,  and  not  at  all  encouraged  from  her  ac- 
counts of  her  father's  state  of  mind,  in  regard  to 
13* 


l50  BELL   MARTIN. 

receiving  any  thing  liberal  from  him,  if,  indeed,  a 
single  dollar  were    to    be    obtained   from    that 
}         quarter. 

"  And  so  you  have  got  her  out  at  last,"  said  his 
friend  Handy  to  him,  a  few  hours  after,  as  they 
met  in  the  bar-room. 

"  Yes,  and  a  bad  bargain,  I  am  afraid,  it  will 
i         turn  out  in  the  end,"  was  the  half  angry  reply. 
"  Why  so  1" 

"  She  came  off  with  only  a  hundred  dollars,  and 
had  to  borrow  that.  It  took  every  cent  to  pay  her 
expenses  here." 

"  The  d — 1  you  say !  I  expected  that  she  would 
't  bring  with  her  at  least  five  hundred  or  a  thousand 
\  dollars." 

"  So  did  I.  But,  instead  of  that,  she  has  brought 
^  only  herself,  which  I  could  have  very  well  dis- 
$  pensed  with." 

"Her  father  will  send  her  money  as  a  matter 
}  of  course,  so  soon  as  he  learns  that  she  is  here." 

"I  am  not  by  any  means  certain  of  that.    From 
^          what  I  can  gather,  he  was  very  angry  when  he 
;          discovered  that  Bell  sent  me  money^  and  threat- 
ened her  with  his  permanent  displeasure  if  she 
continued  to  write  to  me." 

"  You  must  try  and  wheedle  him  out  of  some 
funds  through  her." 

"  That  I  am  afraid,  it  will  be  hard  to  do." 
"  I  am  not  so  certain.     Make  her  believe  that 
you  are  in  business  here,  and  that  by  the  aid  of  a 
\          little  more  capital  you  could  do  very  well.     Re- 
present   yourself  as    thoroughly   reformed,   and 
deeply  penitent  for  past  sins  and  iniquities,  and  as 
being  exceedingly  anxious  to  maintain  in  society 
an  honest  and  honorable  position.     All  this,  with 
amplifications,  she  can  detail  to  her  father,  wind- 
ing off  with  a  request  for  a  remittance  to  aid  you 


A   RE-CNION,    AND   CRUEL   DESERTION.  151  | 

in  this  praiseworthy  effort  at  reformation.    That         \ 
will  do  the  business  for  us,  I'm  thinking." 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  feel  very  sanguine  in  re- 
gard to  the  result,"  replied  Ware ;  "  still  some-          \ 
thing  must  be  done,  for  business  is  dull,  and  luck 
is  against  an  empty  pocket." 

Acting  upon  this  suggestion  of  Handy,  which  i; 
was  but  a  repetition  of  the  substance  of  former 
suggestions,  prospective  of  his  wife's  arrival,  Ware 
made  plausible  representations  to  Bell  in  regard  to 
his  position,  to  business,  his  changed  views,  and 
his  anxious  desire  to  take  a  fair  and  respectable 
station  in  the  community,  and  of  his  great  need  of 
money  to  enable  him  to  prosecute  his  business 
with  success.  Entering  into  all  he  said,  with  a 
deep  and  lively  interest,  Bell  at  once  volunteered  ? 
to  write  to  her  father,  asking  him  for  money, 
which,  under  the  new  aspect  of  affairs,  she  was 
sanguine  would  be  promptly  sent. 

Accordingly,  she  wrote  at  once,  appealing  to 
him  with  all  the  pathos  and  eloquence  that  her 
heart,  warm  in  what  she  was  doing,  could  express. 
Then  came  the  days  of  suspense.     The  looking, 
and  anxious  waiting  for  a  reply.   Weeks,  and  even          \ 
months  passed  on,  and  yet  this  suspense  was  un-          e, 
broken.    No  answer  came.     During  the  first  part 
of  this  period,  her  husband  treated  her  with  every 
kindness  and  attention.     But  his  manner  grew 
cold  as  time  elapsed  and  no  word  was  received          I 
from  home.     Again  and  again  she  wrote,  but  with 
no  better  success. 

One  afternoon,  five  months  from  the  day  she 
arrived  in  Galveston,  her  husband  and  his  insepa- 
rable companion  were  seated  in  the  bar-room  of 
one  of  the  principal  hotels  of  the  place,  glancing 
over  files  of  newspapers.  Among  these  files  were 
many  old  papers  from  the  United  States,  princi- 


I  j 

152  BELL   MARTIN. 

..ally  from   New  York,  Philadelphia,   and  other 
cities  on  the  sea  board. 

"Did  you  see  this?"  suddenly  asked  Handy  in 
/  a  tone  of  surprise,  pushing  the  file  he  had  in  his          \ 

hand  across  the  table  to  Ware,  and  putting  his 
finarers  upon  a  paragraph.      "  Old    Martin    has         ; 
•  failed !" 

"  O  no,  it  cannot  be !"  was  the  quick  reply. 
"  It  is  too  true.    Read  that." 
Ware  read  the  paragraph  pointed  out.    It  was, 
as  Handy  had  said,  too  true.     Mr.   Martin  had 
indeed  failed.     The  truth  was,  the  bankruptcy  of 
\          his  old  friend,  Mr.  Ware,  had  very  seriously  af- 
fected him.     Other  losses,  following  in  quick  suc- 
cession, so  crippled  his  energies,  and  cut  off  his 
>          resources,  that  he  had  at  last  to  yield  to  the  pres- 
|          sure   of  uncontrollable  circumstances,  and   sink 
',          down  from  his  position  of  a  merchant-prince,  into          \ 
'f          a  state  little  above  mere  dependence. 

It  was  about  the  same  time  that  her  husband          \ 
\          made  this  discovery,  that  Bell  was  running  her  eye          \ 
\          over  a  file  of  papers,  likewise  from  the  United 
',          States.     Many  of  them  were  old,  bearing  date          ', 
\          some  five  or  six  months  anterior.     Suddenly  she 
started,  as  a  familiar  name  met  her  eye,  and  then 
I          bent  eagerly  down  to  read  the  unexpected  para- 
',          graph.      It  was  the  announcement  of  her  sister 
)'          Fanny's  death,  which  took  place  in  New  York  a 
5          few  days  after  her  departure  from  home.     It  was 
<          with  difficulty  that  she  could  control  an  almost  ir- 
i;          resistible  impulse  to  utter  a  cry  of  anguish,  as  the 
paper  dropped  upon  the  floor,  so  sudden  and  ter- 
|          rible  was  the  shock  to  her  feelings.     For  a  long 
(          time  she  sat  in  a  kind  of  stupor,  unable  fully  to 
'(          realize  the  dreadful  truth.     Then  came  a  distinct 
I          and  acute  consciousness  of  the  sad  affliction,  ac- 
companied with  thoughts  of  her  parents,  and  chil- 
dren, and  home,  and  touches  of  regret  for  having 

I 


L 


r 


A   RE-UNION,   AND   CRUEL   DESERTION.  153 

forsaken  all  for  one  who  had  already  proved  him- 
self to  have  little  true  affection  for  the  wife  he 
had  so  often  deceived,  and  had  now  lured  away 
thousands  of  miles  from  her  friends,  with  selfish 
and  mercenary  ends,  already  too  apparent  even 
to  her. 

After  the  leelings  of  Mrs.  Ware  had  calmed 
down,  in  a  degree,  she  began  to  desire  her  hus- 

;          band's  return,  That  she  might  communicate  the  sad 

j  intelligence  to  him,  and  find  in  his  sympathy, 
some  belief  to  her  distressed  feelings.  Yet  even 

;  in  this  desire  was  mingled  a  consciousness  that 
from  him  little  comfort  would  flow  ;  for  he  had,  of 

J  late,  grown  too  apparently  indifferent  toward  her, 
and  too  careless  of  her  comfort — often  remaining 
away  until  after  midnight,  and  frequently  not 
coming  in  until  morning. 

The  afternoon  passed  heavily  away — evening 
came,  and  hour  after  hour  rolled  by,  until  mid- 

\  night,  and  still  poor  Mrs.  Ware  was  waiting  and 
watching  for  her  husband,  but  waiting  and  watch- 
ing in  vain.  After  midnight  she  threw  herself 

j  upon  the  bed,  and  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep,  full  of 
distressing  dreams,  from  which  she  awoke  at  day 
dawn,  and  found  herself  still  alone.  And  alone 

;  she  remained  all  through  the  day,  her  husband 
neither  returning  nor  sending  to  inform  her  of  the 
reason,  On  the  following  morning,  Mr.  Ware  nut 

<  having  yet  made  his  appearance,  she  had  a  visit 
from  the  landlord  of  the  hotel  where  she  had  been 

;          since  her  arrival  at  Galveston. 

"  Do  you  know  where  your  husband  is,  ma- 
lam  1"  he  asked,  abruptly,  and  yet  not  in  a  rude 
3r  unkind  manner. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  do  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Ware,  thn 
tears  starting  to  her  eyes,  and  seeming  ready  at 
each  moment  to  leap  forth. 
"  When  did  you  last  see  him?" 


54  BELL   MARTIN. 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  since  the  morning  of  the 
day  before  yesterday." 

"And  never  will  again,  in  these  parts,  I'm 
thinking,"  was  the  rough,  straight-forward  remark 
of  the  landlord,  not  rude,  nor  meant  to  be  unkind. 

"  O,  sir  !  what  do  you  mean  V  ejaculated  poor 
Bell,  endeavoring  to  rise,  but  utterly  unable  to  do 
BO. 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  say,  madam.  I  only  know 
how  to  speak  the  truth,  and  that  in  a  plain,  straight- 
forward manner.  Your  husband,  I  am  told,  left 
.here,  yesterday  morning,  with  a  companion,  for 
Mexico.  He  has  not  acted,  since  he  has  been  here, 
in  a  way  just  to  please  the  people,  and  finding  that 
it  would  not  be  safe  to  stay  much  longer,  he  has 
quietly  taken  himself  off.  Now,  my  advice  to  you 
is,  to  get  home  to  your  friends  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible, for  it  will  be  folly  to  hope  for  his  return.  He 
is  not  only  heavily  indebted  to  me  for  his  own  and 
your  boarding,  but  owes  a  great  many  others,  and 
will  not  be  suffered  to  come  back  to  this  place. 
And  now,  while  I  am  on  this  subject,  I  might  as 
well  say  what  you  ought  to  know,  and  that  is,  that 
he  only  induced  you  to  come  out  here,  in  the  hope 
that  large  sums  of  money  would  be  sent  to  you  by 
your  father." 

"  It  is  false,  sir  !"  exclaimed  Bell,  rising  to  her 
feet  with  sudden  energy,  her  eyes  dilating  and 
flashing,  as  she  looked  the  landlord  steadily  and 
angrily  in  the  face. 

"  I  wish  from  my  heart,  for  your  sake,  that  all  1 
have  said  were  false,"  replied  the  landlord,  in  a 
softened  tone.  "  But  it  is,  believe  me,  madam,  too 
true,  as  I  know  to  my  cost,  and  you  will  know  to 
your  sorrow." 

"O,  can  it  be  true?"  said  poor  Bell,  after  a 
pause,  clasping  her  hands  tightly  across  her  fore- 
head. Then,  as  the  conviction  came  stealing  over 


A   RE-UNTON,   AND   CRUEL   DESERTION.  155 

her  mind,  that  it  was  indeed  the  truth  which  the 
straight-forward  landlord  had  uttered,  she  looked 
up  in  his  face  and  said  in  a  broken  voice  : 
"  Then,  sir,  what  can  1,  what  shall  I  do  ]" 
"  Go  home  to  your  friends  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible." 

"But  I  have  no  means  of  getting  hpme." 
"  Then  write  to  them  at  once  to  send  you  th 

;          means.  You  are  welcome  to  remain  here  until  yet 

j          get  a  remittance  from  them,  much  as  I  have  been 
deceived  and  wronged  by  your  husband." 
As  Mrs.  Ware  uttered  her  almost  inarticulate 

\  thanks,  the  landlord  bowed  and  left  her  alone  in 
her  chamber,  a  prey  to  most  harrowing  reflections. 
So  soon,  however,  as  she  could  compose  her 
thoughts,  she  sat  down  and  wrote  to  her  mother, 

't  imploring  her  to  send  her  instantly  the  means  of 
returning  home. 

Month  after  month  passed  away,  but  there  came 
no  word  from  her  husband,  nor  any  letter  from 
home.  Again  and  again  she  wrote,  but  all  her 
letters  remained  unanswered.  Grateful  for  the 
kindness  and  consideration  of  the  landlord  and  the 
different  members  of  his  family,  Mrs.  Ware,  after 
the  time  had  passed  by  in  which  she  had  hoped  to 
hear  from  her  father,  began  to  feel  that  it  was  her 

;  duty  to  try  and  render  them,  if  possible,  some  ser- 
vice. This  thought  was  the  form  of  acknowledge- 
ment to  herself,  of  the  heart-sickening  fear  that  her 
father  and  mother  had  cast  her  off.  Any  more  dis- 
tinct acknowledgement  of  this  fear  would  have 
been  more  than  she  could  have  borne.  Accord- 
nerly,  she  proposed  to  instruct  the  landlord's  two 
daughters  in  music,  as  some  compensation  for  the 

;  burden  of  her  support. 

This  proposition  was  accepted,  and  in  the  oc- 
cupation of  mind  which  it  afforded,  proved  to  her 
a  great  relief  from  afflicting  thoughts.  There  be- 


t 

I 

56  BELL   MARTIN. 

ins:  no  music  teacher  then  in  the  town,  and  many          j 
yo~ung  ladies  being  extremely  desirous  to  learn, 
Mrs.  Ware  received  several  applications  to  give 
lessons,  so  soon  as  it  was  known  that  she  was  en- 
gaged in  so  doing  at  the  hotel.     For  a  time,  she 
declined  acceding  to  these  propositions,  all  her          >, 
feelings  shrinking  away  from  such  an  exposure  of 
herseFf.     But  as  month  after  month  continued  to 
pass,  and  no  tidings  came  from  home,  her  intense 
longings  to  get  back  to  her  children,  made  her          \ 
determine  to  make  the  teaching  of  music  a  means          t 
of  procuring  sufficient  money  to  pay  her  passage          ', 
to  Philadelphia.     As  soon  as  this  was  determined          \ 
upon,  she  let  it  be  known,  and  was  at  o/ice  en-          £ 
gaged  to  give  lessons  in  several  families. 

This  brought  her,  for  the  first  time  in  nearly          \ 
twelve  months,  once  more  within  the  precincts  of 
the  private  domestic  circle— once  more  among          \ 
mothers  and  their  children.     How  vividly  did  it          £ 
bring  back  the  memories  of  home  and  the  dear          '/ 
little  ones  she  had  left  behind  her— moving  her          j; 
often  to  tears  that  no  effort  on  her  part  could  re- 
strain.   In  more  than  one  family  where  she  gave 
lessons,  a  strong  interest  was  felt  in  her;  but  deli- 
cacy prevented  the  kind  inquiries  that  were  olten          ? 
ready  to  be  made.     All  felt  drawn  toward  her,  for          i 
all  saw  and  felt  that  she  had  indeed  seen  better          \ 
days — but  none  ventured  to  inquire  the  particu- 
lars of  her  history. 

Six  months  more  had  passed  wearily  away,  and 
Mrs.  Ware's  gradually  accumulating  fund  had 
nearly  reached  the  sum  required  to  pay  her  way  \ 

to  Philadelphia,  when  nature,  too  long  and  too 
painfully  tried,  suddenly,  and  from  an  unlooked 
for  shock,  gave  way,  and  she  sunk  down  under  ; 

the  influence  of  a  raging  fever.     For  weeks  she 
hung  lingering  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  but          \ 
finally  her  system  began  to  rally  and  she  slowly 

I  i 


A   RE-UNION,   AND   CRliEL   DESERTION.  15? 

recovered,  but  did  not  regain  her  former  strength 
Her  nervous  system  was  much  shattered  and  her 
spirits  almost  entirely  gone.  Few  were  aware  of 
the  cause  of  her  severe  illness.  It  was  this.  A 
Houston  paper  had  fallen  in  her  way,  and  there 
she  read  the  summary  execution  of  two  men, 
under  Lynch  law,  by  hanging.  Full  particular? 
were  given.  They  had  been  detected  in  cheating 
at  cards,  when  a  quarrel  ensued,  and  a  young  man 
who  had  been  engaged  with  them  was  killed.  The 
incensed  populace  at  once  wrecked  their  ven- 
geance on  the  gamblers. — Their  names  were  giv- 
en as  Johnson,  aiins  Ware,  and  Haines,  alias 
Handy.  A  long  history  of  their  previous  lives  was 
appended,  relating  minutely  the  particulars  of  the 
forgery  in  Philadelphia,  the  scene  on  the  Missis- 
sippi, with  many  other  things  new  and  startling 
to  the  already  too  deeply  afflicted  wife.  In  closing 
the  narrative,  it  was  added  that  he  had  induced 
his  wife  to  leave  her  home  and  join  him  a  few 
months  before  in  Galveston,  where  he  had  heart- 
lessly forsaken  her  in  a  strange  place,  among 
strangers,  and  penniless.  "Although,"  finally 
added  the  account,  "  we  cannot  sanction  the  sum- 
mary proceedings  in  this  case,  yet  we  do  sincerely 
rejoice  that  we  have  been  freed,  even  in  this  way, 
of  two  of  the  most  unprincipled  scoundrels  that 
ever  disgraced  this  part  of  the  country." 

When  Mrs.  Ware  arose  from  the  severe  illness 
occasioned  by  this  dreadful  news  her  spirits  were 
gone,  as  has  been  stated,  and  her  nervous  system 
sadly  shattered.  The  kindness  of  the  hotel  keeper 
and  his  family  had  enabled  her  to  retain  unbroken 
her  little  treasure,  amounting  to  between  sixty  and 
seventy  dollars,  and  with  this,  as  soon  as  she  was 
able  to  start,  she  took  passage  for  New  Orleans. 
She  arrived  safely  there,  after  a  quick  voyage,  and 
on  the  day  following  went  on  board  of  a  boat  that 
14 


158 


BELL   MARTIN. 


was  up  for  Louisville.  Two  tedious  weeks  were 
consumed  in  reaching  the  falls  of  the  Ohio. 
Hence  she  proceeded,  without  waiting  a  single 
day,  to  Wheeling.  But  alas  !  when  she  arrived 
at  Wheeling,  she  found  herself  with  but  four  dol- 
lars, and  the  fare  to  Baltimore  alone  was  fourteen, 
exclusive  of  the  expense  of  meals. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


CONCLUSION. 

ONE  evening,  about  two  months  from  the  day 
on  which  Mrs.  Ware  arrived  at  Wheeling,  there 
sat,  conversing,  in  the  handsomely  furnished  par- 
lors of  a  house  in  Baltimore,  a  man  and  his  wife, 
still  youthful  in  appearance,  but  with  a  sober  ex- 
pression resting  on  their  countenances.  They  had, 
evidently,  known  care  and  anxiety,  but  from  the 
fact  that  no  harsh  lines  marred  the  quiet  tone  of 
their  faces,  it  was  evident  that  their  cares  had  been 
for  others,  more  than  for  themselves.  The  man 
held  an  open  letter  in  his  hand,  the  contents  of 
which  formed  the  subject  of  conversation. 

"  There  can  be  little  doubt,"  remarked  the  wife, 
"  that  Bell's  husband  is  the  person  to  whom 
allusion  is  made.  If  she  be  still  living,  which  I 
fear  is  not  the  case,  she  was,  doubtless,  in  company 
with  him  in  Texas,  when  he  met  his  awful  fate." 


CONCLUSION.  159 

"  What  more  can  be  done  ?"  said  Mrs.  Lane 
(The  reader  has,  of  course,  already  recognised  Ma 
ry  and  her  husband.)  "  We  must  not  give  her  up." 

"  No,  not  until  she  be  found,  living  or  dead.  If 
moved  by  no  other  consideration,  I  cannot  break 
the  solemn  promise  I  made  to  old  Mr.  Martin,  but 
an  hour  before  his  overburdened  spirit  took  from 
earth  its  everlasting  departure.  Nor  the  repeated 
assurance  to  Bell's  mother,  ere  she,  too,  followed 
quickly  her  husband's  footsteps." 

"  It  is  now  nearly  two  years  since  Bell  went 
away,"  said  Mrs.  Lane,  after  a  thoughtful  silence. 
"  Two  years  !  How  like  a  painful  dream  do  the 
events  of  that  brief  period  come  back  upon  the 
memory  !" 

"  Painful,  indeed  to  me.  But,  I  can  well  be- 
lieve, far  more  painful  to  you,  Mary,"  her  hus- 
band replied.  "  How  utterly  has  the  family  of 
Mr.  Martin  been  broken  up,  and  well  nigh  extin- 
guished." 

"  Strange  and  mysterious  are  the  ways  of  Pro- 
vidence," Mary  remarked,  in  a  mournful  tone. 

"  To  me,  there  is  nothing  like  mystery  connect- 
ed with  the  sad  vicissitudes  which  have  taken 
place  in  Mr.  Martin's  family.  Most  of  them,  I 
can  readily  trace  to  a  clearly  apparent  cause — 
and  that  cause,  the  marriage  of  Bell. 

"  That  it  would  cause  Mr.  Martin  to  lose  his 
property,  I  began  to  fear  soon  after  the  marriage. 
The  wicked  manner  in  which  Ware  had  deceived 
both  his  own  and  Mr.  Martin's  family,  and  the 
consequent  unhappiness  of  Bell,  so  unsettled  his 
mind,  that  he  no  longer  gave  that  calm,  earnest 


160  BELL  MARTIN. 

attention  to  business  which  had  heretofore  cha- 
racterized him.  Frequent  losses  were  the  conse- 
quence, which  now  always  irritated,  and  made 
him  less  fitted  for  new  transactions.  The  intima- 
cy between  him  and  old  Mr.  Ware  likewise  par- 
took of  a  different  character.  Their  business  was 
more  mingled — while  neither  of  them  was  so  well 
fitted  for  making  good  operations  as  before.  At 
the  time  of  Mr.  Ware's  failure,  Mr.  Martin  was 
responsible  for  him  to  a  heavy  amount.  The  pay- 
ment  of  this  crippled  him  very  much.  Then  oc- 
curred the  double  shock  of  Bell's  secret  departure 
from  home,  and  Fanny's  sudden  death.  And  fol- 
lowing, in  quick  succession,  came  a  crisis  in  his 
business,  which  ended  in  utter  bankruptcy.  He 
survived  this  last  shock,  you  know,  only  four 
weeks.  Can  you  not  now  see  how  the  marriage 
of  Bell  led  to  all  the  sad  results  that  followed  ?" 

"  Hark  ?  Was  not  that  a  groan  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Lane.  "  There !  Did  you  hear  it  again  ?  It 
seemed  to  come  from  under  our  window." 

Mr.  Lane  paused  to  listen,  when  the  sound  came 
again,  distinct  and  mournful.  He  then  arose,  and 
proceeded  to  the  door  to  ascertain  the  cause. 

The  reader  has  discovered  enough  in  the  con- 
versation which  passed  between  Mary  Lane  and 
her  husband  to  enable  him  to  connect  pretty  dis- 
tinctly the  whole  chain  of  events  in  the  history 
now  drawing  to  a  close.  Lane  is  partner  in  a  large 
commission  house,  in  Baltimore.  As  the  rich  mer- 
chant went  rapidly  down,  the  obscure,  but  honest, 
intelligent  clerk,  was  slowly  rising.  The  two  chil- 
dren left  by  Bell,  have  been  taken  into  Mary's  fold 


CONCLUSION.  161 

and  affections,  and   are  loved  equally  with  her 
own. 

On  the  same  evening,  in  the  passage  of  which 
the  scene  and  conversation,  above  recorded,  took 
place,  poor  Bell  arrived    in  the  city.     She  had         j 
walked  nearly  half  the  distance  from  Wheeling         \ 
to  Baltimore,  riding  the   other   half  of  the  way 
through  the  kind  indulgence  of  a  humane  wagon- 
er.    Two  months  had  been  consumed  in  the  jour- 
ney— six  weeks  of  which  time  she  lay  at  the  house 
of  a  farmer,  who  had  picked  her  up,  fainting,  on 
the  road. 

Arrived  at  Baltimore,  her  clothes  soiled  and 
worn,  without  one  cent  to  buy  a  mouthful  of  food, 
and  ill  from  fatigue  and  loss  of  rest,  she  descend- 
ed from  the  wagon,  and  turned  away,  with  weak 
and  trembling  limbs,  to  go  she  knew  not  where. 
Thoughts  of  home,  and  parents,  and  children, 
roused  her  up  for  a  few  moments,  but  her  spirit 
quickly  sunk,  while  her  limbs  trembled  more  and 
more  as  she  walked  slowly  along.  At  last  she  grew 
so  faint  that  she  had  to  pause  and  lean  against 
something  for  support.  Then  she  gradually  sunk 
down  upon  the  pavement,  overcome  with  a  feeling 
of  deathly  sickness,  and  soon  became  insensible.  i 

How  long  she  remained  in  that  condition  she 
knew  not.     When  consciousness  again  returned,         •; 
a  great  change  had  taken  place.     She  was  lying 
upon  a  bed,  in  a  handsomely  furnished  chamber,         ; 
and  as  she  turned  her  eyes  slowly  around,  some         > 
lew  objects  looked  to  her  strangely  familiar.     In         '( 
attempting  to  move,  she  felt  very  weak,  but  had         / 
no  sensation  of  pain  or  sickness.     No  one  appear         \ 


162  BELL  MARTIN. 

ed  to  her  to  be  in  the  room,  and  she  lay  for  many 
minutes  endeavoring  in  vain  to  settle  the  ques- 
tion whether  she  were  really  awake  or  dreaming. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  she  at  length  murmured,  hall' 
audibly. 

The  sound  of  her  voice  startled  a  female,  before 
hid  by  the  curtains  of  the  bed,  who  sprung  foward, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  into  her  face. 

"  Mary  !  dear  Mary  !  is  it  indeed  you  ?  or  is 
his  but  a  mocking  dream  ?"  ejaculated  Bell,  rising 
up  quickly,  and  falling  forward  into  Mary's  arms. 

"  You  are  Bell ! — my  long  lost,  long  mourned, 
dear  sister  Bell !  And  I  am  Mary !"  whispered 
Mrs.  Lane,  as  she  drew  Bell  to  her  heart,  in  a 
long  embrace. 

"  And  my  children  !  O,  Mary,  where  are  they  V 

Mary  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  left  the  bed 
and  stepped  quickly  out  of  the  room.  When 
she  returned  with  Bell's  two  children,  so  little 
changed  to  the  mother's  eye,  that  she  almost 
sprung  from  the  bed  the  moment  their  bright  young 
faces  came  in  sight.  How  tenderly — how  wildly 
did  Mrs.  Ware  clasp  to  her  bosom  these  dear 
treasures,  once  more  restored  to  her ! 

We  care  not  to  pain  the  reader  with  an  account 
of  her  grief  on  learning  the  death  of  her  parents. 
Let  that  sleep  with  her  subsequent  history,  which 
only  contains  this  much  of  interest  to  the  reader, 
that  she  found  with  Mary  and  her  husband  a  per- 
manent and  peaceful  home. 

THE    END. 


PEIDE  OE  PRINCIPLE; 

WHICH  MAKES  THE  LADY? 


CHAPTER  I. 

O,  no,  my  dear! 
Never  go  to  the 
hall-door.  That's 
the  waiter's  busi- 
ness," said  Mrs. 
Pimlico,  laying 
her  hand,  as  she 
spoke,  upon  the  arm  of  her  daughter  Helen. 
"  But  it 's  only  Jane  and  Lizzy  Malcolm, 
and  John  is  away  up  in  the  fourth  story. 
I  can  let  them  in  before  he  gets  half  way 
down." 

"  No,  my  dear !"  the  mother  replied,  with 
dignity.  "  It's  the  waiter's  place  to  answer 
the  bell.  No  lady  or  gentleman  ever  goes  to 
the  door  to  admit  a  visiter !" 

"  Mrs.  Henry  does,  sometimes,  for  ?he  open- 
ed the  door  for  me  the  last  time  I  called  at 
her  house  to  see  Mary." 

(3) 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

"  Then  Mrs.  Henry  was  not  raised  a  lady, 
that 's  all  I  have  to  say." 

"  I  don't  know  how  that  is,  Ma ;  everybody 
seems  to  like  Mrs.  Henry;  and  I  have  heard 
some  speak  of  her  as  a  perfect  lady.  But 
why  in  the  world  doesn't  John  answer  the 
bell?  He  certainly  hasn't  heard  it.  I  will 
go  and  call  him."  And  Helen  made  a  move- 
ment to  leave  the  room,  but  her  mother  again 
checked  her,  saying — 

"Why  don't  you  keep  quiet,  child?  A 
lady  never  runs  after  the  waiter  to  tell  him 
that  visitors  are  at  the  door.  It 's  his  place 
to  hear  the  bell." 

"  But,  suppose,  Ma,  as  in  the  present  case, 
he  does  not  hear  it,  and  you  do?" 

"  Let  the  visitors  ring  again,  as  ours  are 
doing  at  this  moment." 

Nearly  a  minute  passed  after  the  bell  had 
been  rung  a  second  time,  and  yet,  John  did 
not  go  to  the  door.  He  was  engaged  up  in 
the  fourth  story,  and  did  not  hear  the  sound. 

"  Strange  that  John  does  not  come  !"  He- 
len said — "  Don't  you  think  I  'd  better  let  the 
girls  in,  Ma.  I'm  afraid  they'll  go  away, 
and  I  want  to  see  them  very  much.  And, 
besides,  you  know  it  is  a  long  walk  up  here 
for  them,  and  especially  fatiguing  for  Lizzy, 
who  has  only  been  out  once  or  twice  since 
her  severe  illness.  I  would  not  have  them 
go  away  for  anything." 

"No,  Helen,  you  cannot!    Haven't  I  al- 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  5 

ready  told  you  that  no  lady  ever  answers  the 
door-bell.  That  reason  one  would  think  suf- 
ficient." 

"  But  surely,  Ma,  there  are  circumstances 
under  which  the  violation  of  such  a  rule 
would  be  no  treason  against  social  etiquette." 

"  No  lady,  I  tell  you,  Helen,  ever  breaks 
that  rule,  and  you  must  not.  But  ring  the 
bell,  dear,  for  a  servant." 

The  bell  was  rung,  and  to  the  servant  who 
appeared  a  few  moments  after,  Mrs.  Pimlico        i 
said — 

"  Go  and  see  where  the  waiter  is,  and  tell        j 
him  to  attend  the  street  door." 

But,  before  John  could  be  found,  the  young 
ladies  had  departed.  They  lived  in  a  part 
of  the  city  distant  from  that  in  which  Mrs.  ^ 
Pimlico  resided,  and  had  come  out  expressly 
to  call  upon  Helen.  Lizzy  Malcolm,  as  was 
intimated  by  Miss  Pimlico,  had  but  recently 
recovered  from  a  very  severe  illness.  She 
was  still  weak,  and  able  to  bear  but  little 
fatigue. 

"  There  is  no  one  at  the  door,"  John  said, 
entering  the  parlour,  nearly  five  minutes 
after  the  direction  to  call  him  had  been  given 
by  Mrs.  Pimlico.  >' 

"  Very  well,  John.     But  another  time  be 
more  attentive.    Through  your  negligence  of 
duty,  our  visitors  have   been   forced   to  go         £ 
away.     This  must  not  occur  again." 

"  Just  as  I  feared,"   Helen  said,  with  dis 
1* 


J 


0  PRIDE   OR  PRINCIPLE. 

appointment  and  concern  as  soon  as  John  had 
left  the  room.  "  I  wished  to  see  Lizzy  Mal- 
colm, particularly.  But  that  is  a  matter  of 
little  importance,  compared  with  the  conse- 
quences to  herself  that  may  be  occasioned  by 
excessive  fatigue.  To  walk  this  far,  and  her 
health  so  feeble  as  it  is,  must  have  been  a 
great  effort.  How  will  she  possibly  be  able 
to  get  home,  without  either  rest  or  refresh- 
ment ?  Indeed,  Ma,  etiquette  or  no  etiquette, 

1  think  we  were  wrong !  It  seems  to  me,  that 
one  leading  characteristic  of  a  lady  is,  to  be 
considerate  of  others — to  seek  the  happiness 
and  the  good  of  others — not  to  be  all  defer- 
ence to  mere  external  rules  and  forms,  to  the 
death  of  genuine  lady-like  principles." 

"  How  foolish  you  talk,  Helen  !  If  you  ex- 
pect to  move  in  well-bred  society,  you  must 
show  yourself  to  be  a  well-bred  woman. 
And  no  well-bred  woman  ever  violates  the 
prescribed  rules  of  etiquette.  I  am  as  sorry 
as  you  can  be  that  necessity  compelled  us  to 
let  the  Misses  Malcolm  go  away  from  our 
door  without  admission.  But  I  would  not 
admit  the  President's  daughter  myself,  nor 
suffer  you  to  do  it,  even  if  the  waiter  could 
not  be  found.  No  lady,  as  I  have  often  tried 
to  impress  upon  your  mind,  ever  opens  her 
own  door  to  admit  any  one.  Let  visitors  go 
away,  if  necessary,  but  stand  by  the  good 
usages  of  your  station."  * 

i*  But  what  harm  could  have  arisen  from 


PRIDE  OR  PRINCIPLE.  7 

my  just  opening  the  door,  and  letting  in  Lizzy 
and  her  sister.  No  one  from  the  street  would 
have  seen  me." 

"Would  the  Misses  Malcolm  have  seen 
you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Very  well.  Don't  you  suppose  they 
would  have  blazoned  it  about?  Certainly 
they  would,  to  your  loss  of  caste !" 

"  I  am,  no  doubt,  exceedingly  dull,  and  ex- 
ceedingly vulgar,  Ma.  But,  for  my  life,  I 
cannot  understand  how  the  mere  opening  of 
a  door,  or  the  calling  of  a  servant,  can  in  any 
way  affect  a  lady  or  a  gentleman's  social 
standing  among  sensible  people,  who  are  sup- 
$  posed  to  have  the  faculty  of  discriminating 
moral  worth,  and  the  virtue  to  estimate  every 
one  according  to  his  real  interior  quality. 
Certainly,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  should 
not  have  the  slightest  objection  to  its  being 
known  everywhere  that  I  visit,  that  I  have 
opened  the  front  door  a  dozen  times  every 
week  during  the  last  four  years." 

Thus  far  the  conversation  had  been  con- 
ducted, on  the  part  of  the  mother,  in  a  per- 
fectly calm  and  dignified  manner.  The  avoid- 
ance of  all  appearance  of  excitement  was  as 
much  a  rule  of  external  observance,  as  the 
cutting  of  a  lemon  or  cocoa-nut  pudding  with 
a  spoon,  or  the  saturating  of  her  bread  in  the 
gravy  and  sauce  of  her  dinner  plate,  and  thus 
conveying  them  to  the  masticatory  cavity, 


f*  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

instead  of  using  so  ungenteel  an  instrument 
as  a  knife  in  eating.  But  the  bold  declara- 
tion of  such  unheard-of  opinions  in  genteel 
society,  and  that  from  her  own  daughter, 
broke  down  the  spell  of  composure  that  had 
been  so  well  assumed. 

"  Fool !  Fool  that  I  was  !"  ejaculated  Mrs. 
Pimlico,  rising  quickly  to  her  feet,  and  walk- 
ing backwards  and  forwards  in  an  agitated 
manner,  "  ever  to  have  permitted  you  to  be- 
come the  inmate  of  your  Aunt  Mary's  family ! 
I  always  knew  that  she  was  a  woman  of  no 
breeding,  but  I  forgot  that  her  want  of  gen- 
tility might,  unhappily,  be  transferred  to  my 
own  daughter." 

"Mother!"  said  Helen,  in  a  firm  voice, 
"  if  there  ever  was  a  lady,  Aunt  Mary  is 
one !" 

Mrs.  Pimlico  stopped  suddenly  in  her  ner- 
vous perambulation,  and  stared  at  her  daugh- 
\  ter  with  a  look  of  blank  amazement. 

"  To  think  that  I  should  ever  hear  a  chHd 
of  mine  make  such  a  declaration  !"  she  at 
length  said,  half  mournfully.  "  Your  Aunt 
Mary  a  lady !  She  is  one  neither  by  birth 
nor  education,  let  me  tell  you,  Helen.  She 
never  is,  and  never  will  be  a  lady,  although 
a  very  good  woman  in  her  way.  But  if  she 
were  a  saint,  that  would  not  constitute  her  a 
lady.  I  wish  you  would  learn  to  make  a  just 
discrimination  between  a  woman  of  kind  feel- 
ings, excellent  moral  character,  and  intelli- 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

gence,  all  of  which  my  brother's  wife  pos- 
sesses, and  a  lady.  The  former  we  meet  with 
in  all  classes — but  the  thorough-bred  lady  is 
not  of  every-day  occurrence." 

"  I  should  really  like  to  know  what  consti- 
tutes a  lady,  Ma,"    Helen  replied.    "  Since  I 
have  come  home,  I  find  that,  on  this  subject, 
all  my  previous  ideas  go  for  nothing.  I  thought 
I  had  been  fully  instructed  on  this  subject; 
but  it  seems  I  have  been  mistaken." 
"Instructed?     By  whom?" 
"  By  my  aunt,  and  by  my  own  common 
sense." 

"  By  your  aunt !"  (with  an  expression  of 
contempt).  "  Would  you  go  to  a  blacksmith 
to  learn  music?" 

'  "  A  residence  of  four  years  with  my  aunt 
has  made  me  so  well  acquainted  with  her 
character,  as  to  cause  me  to  love  her  tender- 
ly. I  cannot,  therefore,  hear  her  lightly 
spoken  of  without  pain,"  Helen  said,  with 
much  feeling. 

A  cutting  retort  trembled  upon  Mrs.  Pim- 
lico's  tongue ;  but  she  all  at  once  remembered 
that  to  exhibit  feeling  of  any  kind  was  unbe- 
coming in  a  well-bred  woman.  She  there- 
fore contented  herself  with  merely  saying,  in 
a  cold  voice, 

"  I  never  admired  your  aunt ;  you  must 
not,  therefore,  be  offended,  if  I  give  my  rea- 
sons for  not  liking  her." 

Mrs.  Pimlico  was  a  thorough-bred  woman 


10  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

of  the  worlii.  She  was  a  lady,  in  the  con- 
ventional sense  of  that  term,  and  belonged  to 
that  portion  of  society  which  passes  not  over 
one  jot  or  tittle  of  the  law  of  etiquette.  All 
were  judged  by  one  unvarying  standard.  No 
matter  how  virtuous,  how  high-minded,  how 
self-sacrificing  for  the  good  of  others,  any 
might  be,  they  were  looked  upon  by  her  as 
unfit  to  mingle  in  "  good  society,"  if  they 
were  detected  in  any  deviation,  through  ma- 
nifest ignorance,  from  the  social  statute.  An 
instance  or  two  of  her  rigid  adherence  to  con- 
ventional rules,  will  illustrate  her  character. 

"  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Lionel, 
my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Pimlico  to  her  one  even- 
ing, while  they  were  in  a  large  company. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  Mr.  Pimlico,"  she 
replied,  drawing  herself  up  with  dignity. 
"  He  is  not  a  gentleman." 

"Mr.  Lionel  not  a  gentleman!"  said  her 
husband,  in  surprise. 

"  No.  Didn't  you  notice  him  at  Mr.  Elm- 
wood's  dinner  party  eating  fish  with  a  knife. 
Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing?  And  worse 
than  that:  when  asked  by  Mr.  Elmwood  to 
carve  a  turkey,  he  actually  pushed  back  his 
chair,  and  stood  up  to  it !" 

Mr.  Pimlico  said  no  more.  He  knew  his 
wife  well  enough  to  understand  that  she  was 
in  earnest. 

On  another  occasion  she  refused  to  be  in- 
troduced to  a  gentleman,  because,  at  a  dinner 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 


*art) ,  in  handing  his  plate  to  a  waiter,  he 
nad  laid  his  knifo  and  fork  straight,  instead 
of  crossed,  upon  it;  and,  after  concluding  the 
meal,  instead  of  placing  his  knife  and  fork  in 
parallel  lines  beside  his  plate,  he  had  been  so 
vulgar  as  to  leave  both  knife  and  fork  crossed 
upon  his  plate.  The  lady  who  presided  at 
the  table  on  the  occasion,  was  likewise  voted 
by  her  as  not  a  well-bred  woman,  because 
she  used  a  knife  instead  of  a  spoon  to  serve  a 
cocoa-nut  pudding,  which  all  know  resembles 
a  pie,  and  is  so  treated  for  convenience  by 
nearly  every  one.  The  suspicion  of  want  of 
clear  pretensions  to  gentility  in  both  herself 
and  husband  was  corroborated  in  various 
ways.  As,  for  instance,  the  carving-knives 
placed  by  the  dishes  containing  fowls  were 
not  short-bladed,  and  of  the  peculiar  construc- 
tion required — the  dessert-knives  were  of  fine 
polished  steel,  instead  of  silver ;  and,  worse 
than  all,  steel  forks  were  actually  placed  be- 
side each  plate,  as  well  as  silver  ones,  thus 
providing  for  that  most  vulgar  practice,  the 
use  of  a  steel  fork  as  a  fork,  instead  of  a  silver 
one  as  a  spoon,  or  a  scoop-shovel. 

Her  only  daughter,  Helen,  had  resided  for 
four  years  in  the  family  of  Mrs.  Pirnlico's 
brother,  who  lived  in  the  city  where  she  had 
been  sent  to  a  celebrated  seminary  for  young 
ladies.  How  far,  in  thus  permitting  Helen 
to  reside  from  home  for  so  many  years,  Mrs. 
Pimlico  had  been  governed  by  a  simple  re 


12  PRIDE   OR   PRINCIPLE. 

gard  for  the  good  of  her  child,  we  cannot 
pretend  to  guess.  She  \vas  a  proud,  cold- 
hearted  woman  of  fashion — one  who  esteemed 
herself  better  than  others,  just  in  the  degree 
that  she  possessed  a  more  minute  knowledge 
of  the  too  frequently  arbitrary  rules  of  eti- 
quette, and  observed  them  with  undeviating 
precision.  Her  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Godwin, 
as  the  reader  has  already  learned,  was  no 
favourite  with  her,  EL  hough  she  had  been 
willing  to  let  Helen  remain  an  inmate  of  her 
family  for  four  years.  The  reason  of  her 
want  of  a  very  affectionate  regard  for  Mrs. 
Godwin,  grew  out  of  the  fact  of  their  cha- 
racters and  ends  of  action  being  diametrically 
opposite.  Pride  ruled  the  one — Principle  the 
other.  One  was  ambitious  of  being  consi- 
dered a  thorough-bred  woman  in  high  life — 
the  other  of  doing  good.  The  one  thought 
of  herself,  and  sought  to  be  courted  and  ad- 
mired— the  other  was  humble-minded,  seek- 
ing not  her  own  glory,  or  the  praise  of  men, 
but  striving  to  bless  all  around  her  by  kind 
acts,  kind  words,  and  cheerful  smiles.  Like 
oil  and  water,  therefore,  they  could  not 
mingle. 

Helen  had  completed  her  period  of  instruc- 
tion and  returned  home  about  six  months 
previous  to  the  time  of  the  opening  of  our 
story.  It  was  not  long  before  Mrs.  Pimlico 
discovered  that  she  was  alarmingly  deficient 
in  those  nice  points  of  observance  by  which 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 


13 


a   thorough-bred  woman  is   at  once   distin- 
guished.    This  was,  to  her,  a  source  of  great 
I  concern   and   mortification.      Of  the  nature 
I  and  strength  of  the  principles  that  governed 
j  her,  she  thought  but  little.     These  were  se- 
'  condary    to   her   external    accomplishments. 
I  From  the  time  of  her  return  to  her  father's 
i  house,  Helen's  intercourse  with   her  mother 
1  had  not  been  pleasant  to  her.     She  had  lived 
long  enough  with  her  aunt  to  become  familiar 
with  and  to  love  higher  and  nobler  ends  than 
those  which  govern  a  mere  woman  of  fashion, 
such  as  she  discovered   her  mother  to   be. 
And  as  she  was  ever  violating  some  unmean- 
ing rule  of  so-called  propriety,  and  meeting 
the  penalty  of  censure,  without   being  suffi- 
ciently conscious  of  wrong  to  repent    and 
amend,  her  days  passed  far  less  happily  than 
those  which  had  been  spent  with  her  aunt, 
where  some  precept  of  true  wisdom,  or  some 
living  expression  of  true  affection,  marked 
each  peaceful  hour.     Still,  she  loved  her  mo- 
ther, and,  for  her  sake,  strove  to  act  by  line 
and  rule.     But  the  impulses  of  a  warm  arid 
jenerous  heart — the  habit  of  thinking  little 
of  herself,  and  of  being  governed  by  the  rule 
of  right  under  all  circumstances, — were  con- 
stantly leading  her  into  some  little  act  or 
other  that  provoked  a  maternal  rebuke. 


14  PRIDE   OR   PRINCIPLE. 


C  HALTER  II. 

"  1  'M  really  afraid  this  walk  will  be  too 
much  for  you,"  the  mother  of  Lizzy  Malcolm 
said,  looking  into  her  daughter's  pale  face,  as 
the  latter  came  down  from  her  chamber, 
dressed  to  go  out,  and  accompanied  by  her 
sister  Jane. 

"  Oh  no,  Ma.  I  feel  quite  strong  this  morn 
ing — and  the  day  is  so  fine.  We  will  walk 
slowly,  and  then  sit  a  good  while  at  Mrs. 
Pimlico's.  I  promised  Helen  Pimlico  that  I 
would  see  her  to-day." 

"Well,  go  along,  child — but  take  care  of 
yourself.  Over-fatigue  may  throw  you  back 
again,  and  keep  you  confined  to  the  house  all 
this  fall  and  winter." 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,  Ma.  I  '11  take  good 
care  of  myself,"  Lizzy  said,  smiling,  as  she 
turned  away. 

The  day,  though  bright,  was  cool  for  the 
season.  Lizzy  Malcolm  had  not  walked  many 
squares  before  she  felt  a  good  deal  fatigued,  as 
well  as  chilled  by  the  cold,  penetrating  atmo- 
sphere. She  had  miscalculated  her  strength. 
By  the  time  they  reached  Mrs.  Pimlico's,  she 
was  so  faint  that  she  had  to  lean  against  the 
door  for  support,  while  her  sister  rang  the 
bell. 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  15 

"  I  cannot  stand  a  minute  longer,  sister," 
she  said,  after  they  had  rung  twice  and  wait- 
ed for  a  good  while ;  "  I  shall  faint  if  they 
don't  open  the  door  soon." 

Jane  listened  intently  for  a  moment  or  two 
for  the  sound  of  some  one  approaching  from 
within — then  drawing  her  arm  around  Lizzy, 
and  supporting  her,  she  said,  in  a  half-vexed 
tone — 

"  Come !  The  footman  is  probably  asleep. 
And  no  one  else  dare  open  the  door !" 

As  Lizzy  descended  the  steps,  and 'com- 
menced walking,  the  change  from  a  perfectly 
quiet,  standing  position,  produced,  tempora- 
rily, a  healthier  action  of  the  vital  functions, 
and  threw  the  sluggish  blood  more  quickly  to 
the  surface  and  extremities  of  the  body,  so 
that  she  had  merely  to  lean  heavily  upon  the 
arm  of  Jane,  through  which  she  had  drawn 
her  own  on  gaining  the  pavement,  to  be  able 
to  walk  quite  steadily.  Still,  she  felt  exceed- 
ingly fatigued  and  heavy  in  every  limb,  and, 
yet  worse,  had  not  gone  far  before  a  severe 
and  blinding  headach  commenced,  accompa- 
nied with  nausea,  to  her  too  sure  a  precursor 
of  a  sick  day. 

"  How  do  you  feel  now  ?"  Jane  asked,  for 
the  tenth  time,  in  a  concerned  voice,  after 
they  had  walked  along  for  several  squares. 

"  I  feel  very  sick,"  was  the  reply.  "  Every 
little  while  a  faintness  comes  over  me.  and  1 
teem  just  as  if  I  were  going  to  fall  to  the 


i6  PRIDE   OR   PRINCIPLE. 

ground.  I  'm  afraid  I  won't  be  able  to  keep 
up  much  longer.  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  wouldn't 
like  to  faint  here  in  the  street." 

"  We  are  not  far  now  from  Mrs.  Henry's," 
Jane  said.  "  Try  and  keep  up — we  will  soon 
be  there." 

"  Bless  me !  If  there  aint  Lizzy  Malcolm 
and  her  sister !"  exclaimed  the  lady  of  whom 
Jane  had  just  spoken,  rising  from  her  seat  at 
the  window  of  a  richly  furnished  parlour.  "  1 
didn't  know  she  had  been  out  since  her  se- 
vere illness.  How  pale  she  looks !  She  is 
no  doubt  fatigued  with  so  long  a  walk,  and 
mustn't  be  kept  waiting  at  the  door  an  in- 
stant." 

As  she  said  this,  Mrs.  Henry  stepped  quick- 
ly from  the  parlour,  where  she  had  been  con- 
versing with  a  visiter  of  some  distinction  in 
society,  and  went  to  the  street-door,  which 
she  opened  and  held  in  her  hand  until  the 
two  young  ladies  had  ascended  the  steps  and 
entered  the  hall.  Lizzy  was  too  much  ex- 
hausted to  speak,  which  Mrs.  Henry  instantly 
perceiving,  she  drew  her  arm  around  her  and 
assisted  Jane  to  support  her  into  the  parlour, 
which  she  had  only  time  to  gain  before  she 
sunk,  fainting,  upon  a  sofa.  It  was  more 
than  an  hour  before  she  recovered  from  this 
state  of  unconsciousness,  and  then  she  Avas 
too  ill  to  sit  up.  Mrs.  Henry  had  her  re- 
moved to  her  chamber  and  bed,  and  Jane 
went  home  for  her  mother,  who  soon  came, 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  17 

and,  after  consultation  with  Mrs.  Henry, 
deemed  it  best  to  send  for  their  family  physi- 
cian. The  doctor  found  his  patient  with 
considerable  fever,  a  strong  tendency  of  blood 
to  the  head,  and  partial  delirium.  After  pre- 
scribing as  he  deemed  requisite,  he  advised  \ 
the  immediate  removal  of  Lizzy  to  her  own 
home,  which  was  done.  The  cause  of  her 
illness,  he  said,  arose  altogether  from  over- 
fatigue,  which  had  brought  on  what  threat- 
ened to  be  a  relapse  into  the  disease  from 
which  she  h&d  so  recently  and  but  partially 
recovered.  In  this  last  fear,  he  was  right. 
A  long  and  painful  illness  was  the  conse- 
quence, from  which  she  at  last  slowly  reco- 
vered, but  with,  it  was  feared  by  both  medi- 
cal attendant  and  family,  a  shattered  consti- 
tution. 

During  this  sickness,  Helen  Pimlico  visited 
the  patient  frequently.  Her  heart  always 
smote  her  when  she  looked  upon  her  pale 
face  and  emaciated  form,  and  remembered 
that  all  this  was  in  consequence  of  her  having 
been  permitted  to  go  away  from  the  door  of 
her  father's  house,  merely  because  it  would 
have  been,  according  to  her  mother's  code,  a 
violation  of  etiquette  for  any  one  to  admit  her 
but  the  waiter. 

"  If  I  must  obey  such  rules  to  be  called  a         \ 
lady,"  she  sighed  to  herself  as   she  left  the 
house  of  the  sick  girl  one  day,  "  then  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  honoured  by  the  empty  title.     I 


18  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

do  not  wish  to  be  a  lady — let  me  rather  be  a 
WOMAN — a  true  woman,  like  my  Aunt  Mary." 

On  going  home  that  day,  she  found  that 
her  mother  had  received  a  letter  from  her 
sister-in-law,  informing  her  that  she  intended 
visiting  Philadelphia  in  about  two  weeks,  to 
spend  a  month  or  so  in  the  city. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad !"  exclaimed  Helen, 
clapping  her  hands  with  delight,  and  actually 
taking  one  or  two  bounds  from  the  floor.  But 
she  stopped  suddenly  on  seeing  her  mother's 
look  of  surprise,  rebuke,  and  mortification. 

"  Really,  Helen,  I  'm  discouraged  !"  said 
Mrs.  Pimlico — "  utterly  discouraged !  I  did 
hope  that  my  daughter  would  become  a  well- 
bred  woman — a  lady  in  the  true  sense  of  that 
term.  But  I  am  in  despair.  Your  Aunt 
Godwin  has  utterly  ruined  you !" 

"  What  have  I  done  1"  asked  Helen,  with 
a  look  of  blank  amazement.  "  I  am  sure  I 
meant  nothing  wrong." 

"  Who  ever  saw  any  one  in  good  society 
enact  a  scene  like  that  ? — Jumping  up  and 
clapping  your  hands  like  a  vulgar  country 
hoyden !  Will  you  never  learn  to  practise 
that  dignified  repose,  which  is  undisturbed 
by  any  intelligence  ?" 

"  Undisturbed  by  any  intelligence  !  Would 
you  have  me  become  as  immovable  as  a  sta- 
tue?" 

"  Yes,  as  immovable  as  a  statue,  rather 
than  as  agitated  and  turbulent  as  a  monkey." 


PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE. 

Nature  forcibly  asserted  her  right,  and 
caused  Mrs.  Pimlico  to  show  a  little — a  very 
little — though  still  a  well-defined,  excitement, 
as  she  uttered  the  last  sentence,  thus  exhibit- 
ing a  gleam  of  the  woman,  shining  through 
a  crack  in  the  conventional  crust  of  good- 
breeding.  She  was  conscious  of  this,  and 
regained,  by  a  well-timed  effort,  her  calm  and 
dignified  exterior. 

"  A  true  gentlewoman,"  she  added,  "  never 
enacts  a  scene  under  any  circumstances. 
News  of  the  greatest  misfortune  that  could 
befal  her,  is  received  with  the  same  calmness 
and  apparent  indifference  as  the  intelligence 
of  some  distinguished  favour,  or  happy  event. 
Her  business  is  to  be  composed  under  all  cir- 
cumstances. This  being  one  of  the  invaria- 
ble standards  by  which  she  is  known,  there 
is  no  difficulty  in  distinguishing  a  lady  from 
a  mere  ordinary  woman.  You,  my  dear,  are 
not  sufficiently  composed.  Suppose  any  one 
had  seen  you  start  up  and  clap  your  hands 
as  you  did  just  now  at  the  bare  intelligence 
that  a  woman  like  your  Aunt  Mary  was  go- 
ing to  pay  us  a  visit,  what  would  they  have 
thought  of  you?  It  would  have  destroyed 
your  prospects  in  life  effectually." 

Helen  could  not  understand  how  her  ex- 
pression of  joy,  at  the  news  of  her  aunt's 
visit,  even  if  it  had  been  seen  by  others,  was 
going  to  affect  her  prospects  in  life.  But  she 
did  not  say  so,  for  opposition  to,  or  questions 


20  PRIDE   OR   PRINCIPLE. 

as  to  the  correctness  of,  any  of  her  mother's 
opinions,  always  grieved  her.  She,  therefore, 
remained  silent,  while  her  mother  gave  her 
another  of  her  lone;  and  tedious  lectures  on 
etiquette. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MR.  GODWIN,  the  brother  of  Mrs.  Pimlico, 
was  a  lawyer  of  eminence,  residing  in  a  city 
some  three  or  four  hundred  miles  from  that 
which  had  the  honour  of  numbering  his  sis- 
ter among  the  members  of  its  most  distin- 
guished and  fashionable  coteries.  He  was  a 
real  gentleman,  that  is,  one  from  the  heart. 
And  his  wife  was  a  real  American  woman, 
inside  and  out.  Both  were  respected  and 
loved  in  the  circle  of  true  refinement  and  in- 
telligence where  they  moved.  Not  for  their 
calm,  cold  exterior  —  not  because  of  their 
strict  observance  of  every  nice  law  in  the 
code  of  etiquette — but  for  their  genuine  good- 
feeling  towards  all,  that  never  permitted  them 
to  say  or  do  anything  to  offend  good  sense, 
real  good-breeding,  or  virtuous  principles. 
Mrs.  Godwin,  like  Mrs.  Pimlico,  went  much 
into  company,  and  sought,  like  her,  positions 
of  influence.  But,  with  what  different  ends  ' 
While  the  artificial  gentlewoman  sought 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  21 

praise  and  glory,  she  sought  to  inspire  all 
around  her  with  elevated  sentiments  and  cor- 
rect principles  of  action.  While  the  former 
looked  for  deference  to  herself,  the  latter  for- 
got herself  in  her  efforts  to  make  others 
pleased  and  happy.  Thus  it  was,  that  a  prin- 
ciple of  good  will  to  all  made  Mrs.  Godwin 
a  lady;  while  pride  and  self-love  gave  to 
Mrs.  Pimlico  merely  the  external  semblance 
of  one. 

The  residence  of  Helen  with  her  aunt  and 
uncle,  had  been  a  blessing  both  to  them  and 
to  herself.  They  had  no  children  of  their 
own.  Their  love  for  her  was,  in  consequence, 
of  a  tenderer  character  than  it  otherwise 
would  have  been.  In  the  few  years  that  she 
spent  with  them,  her  mind  expanded  rapidly 
in  its  advance  to  maturity ;  and  they  had  the 
unspeakable  pleasure  of  guiding  and  protect- 
ing this  expansion — of  seeing  Helen's  char- 
acter taking  that  true  form  which  distin- 
guishes the  real  woman  from  the  conventional 
lady.  In  parting  with  her,  they  found  that 
they  had  loved  her  even  more  tenderly  than 
they  had  imagined ; — that  she  seemed  so 
much  like  their  own  child,  as  to  make  the 
separation,  which  was  to  be  a  permanent  one, 
deeply  painful.  During  the  few  months  that 
had  elapsed  since  her  return  home,  a  regular 
correspondence  had  been  kept  up  between 
Helen  and  her  aunt,  in  which  the  former  had 
hinted  only  vaguely  at  her  mother's  execs- 


22  I'RIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

sive  deference  to  the  nicest  social  forms,  too 
many  of  which  were,  to  her,  perfectly  un- 
meaning.    But,  enough  was  apparent  to  one 
so  well  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Pimlico's  pecu- 
\         liarities  as  Mrs.  Godwin,  to  make  her  fully 
aware  of  the  trying,  if  not  dangerous,  posi- 
\         tion  in  which  Helen  was  placed. 

"  I  really  think  we  shall  have  to  make  your 

sister  a  visit,"  Mrs.  Godwin  said,  one  day, 

5         about  six  months  after  Helen  had  returned 

]         home.     "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  de- 

\         sire  to  see  our  dear  Helen." 

"  That  will  hardly  be  possible,"  Mr.  God- 
is         win  replied.     "  Three  or  four  hundred  miles 
is  a  long  journey.    And  just  at  this  time  my 
business  requires  close  attention." 

Mrs.  Godwin  sat,  thoughtful,  for  some  time. 
and  then  said  in  a  quiet,  but  serious  voice, 

"Apart  from  the  pleasure  it  would  give 
me  to  see  the  dear  girl  again,  I  think  duty 
really  calls  upon  me  to  make  some  sacrifices 
for  her  sake.  She  has  been  with  her  mother 
for  about  six  months  of  the  most  critical  por- 
tion of  her  life.  We  both  know,  too  well, 
the  false  standard  she  sets  up,  and  the  perti- 
nacity with  which  she  will  seek  to  make  He- 
len square  her  conduct  by  that  standard; 
instead  of  guiding  her  into  the  living  princi- 
ples of  right  conduct  in  life,  from  which  flow, 
\  as  a  pure  stream  from  a  pure  fountain,  the 
highest  forms  of  social  intercourse — those 
which  have  governed  the  best,  the  wisest, 


I 

PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE.  23 

and  the  most  refined  men4and  women  of  this         < 
or  any  other  age.     Helen  is  young,  and,  we 
know,  loves   her  mother  tenderly ;   and  we 
cannot  tell  how  the  latter  may  insinuate  into 
\         her  qynd  her  own  false  notions,  and  cause  her 

Ito  act  from  them.  If  she  had  not  entrusted 
Helen  to  our  care  for  so  many  years,  thus 
throwing  upon  us  the  duty  of  guiding  her 
opening  mind,  and  sowing  there  the  seeds  that 
are  lo  spring  up  and  produce  fruit  in  after 
age ;  and  if  Helen  were  not  now  of  a  rational 
and  therefore  individually  responsible  age,  I  / 
should  deem  any  act  that  looked  to  the  de-  ; 
struction  of  her  mother's  peculiar  influence 
over  her,  as  decidedly  wrong.  But  we  have 
a  certain  responsibility  in  regard  to  her.  It 
fell  to  our  duty  to  implant  good  seed  in  her 
mind,  and  now,  it  seems  to  me  that  we  would 
be  blameable  if  we  did  not  do  our  best  to  pre- 
vent evil  seed  from  being  sown,  and  springing 
up  in  luxuriant  vegetation,  to  the  weakening 
or  extermination  of  the  good.  Does  it  not  so 
present  itself  to  your  mind  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  Mr.  Godwin  said, 
thoughtfully.  "  But  what  can  you  do  by  a 
mere  visit  of  a  few  days  or  a  few  weeks,  to 
counteract  the  daily  and  hourly  influence  of 
her  mother  ?" 

"  Not  much,  if  Helen  have  already  yielded 
herself  up  blindly  to  her  influence.  But  this 
I  don't  believe  to  be  the  case.  I  think  she  is 
eidl  struggling  against  mere  prescription,  and 


24  PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE. 

seeking  to  discover  the  good  and  the  true 
in  every  thing.  I  do  not  propose  to  myself 
to  take  any  distinct  counter-positions  to  her 
mother — to  array  myself  in  open  opposition 
to  her,  in  her  own  sphere  of  action  ;£ut  to 
strengthen  and  sustain  Helen  by  my  example 
— to  let  her  come  within  the  attractive  im- 
pulses of  another  and  a  different  sphere.  If 
still  firm  in  her  love  of  principles  in  action, 
my  presence  for  a  little  while  may  be  of  great 
use  to  her.  If  she  is  wavering,  I  may  be  able 
to  exhibit  to  her  a  truer  standard  than  the 
one  about  -to  be  adopted." 

To  this  Mr.  Godwin  did  not  reply  for  some 
time.     At  length  he  said — 

"  You  are  right,  Mary.    If,  in  the  order  of 

<          Providence,  it  become  our  duty  to  sow  good 

\          seed,  we  ought,  as  far  as  it  is  in  our  power,  to 

\          seek  to  water  that  seed,  and  protect  it,  as  it 

i;          springs   up,  from  poisonous   plants.     In  the 

present  case,  we  cannot  do  much ;  nor  would 

''.         it  be  right  to  attempt  to  do  much.     But  I 

think  you  had  better  make  my  sister  a  visit, 

and  spend  a  few  weeks  with  her.     It  will  not 

be  in  my  power  to  accompany  you.    But  you 

can  go  alone." 

"  I  would  rather  not  go  alone,"  Mrs.  God- 
win said,  looking  up  into  her  husband's  face 
with  a  glance  of  affection.     "  I  am  not  a  fa- 
vourite with  your  sister,  and  shall  not  feel 
\         comfortable  unless  you  are  along." 


v^^v^~^  ^ 

-       '  I 

PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  25 

"  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  go,  Mary, 
but  it  is  not  at  this  time.    I  have  two  or  three 
cases  on  hand  that  require  my  attention.  But 
the  end  which  you  propose  to  yourself  is  one 
involving  a  serious  duty.     If  we  set  out  to         \ 
act  from  right  principles,  we  will  sometimes 
be  required  to  do  violence  to  our  feelings.         $ 
But  this  you  have  already  learned." 

"True.     Then  you  think  I  ought  to  visit         £ 
Philadelphia,  even  if  I  have  to  go  alone?" 

"  I  do.  If  1  can  possibly  leave  home  at  the 
termination  of  your  visit,  I  will  come  on  for 
you." 

This  matter  decided,  a  letter  was  written 
to  Mrs.  Pimlico,  announcing  that  her  sister- 
in-law  would  be  in  Philadelphia  in  a  few 
weeks.  The  receipt  of  this  letter,  as  has 
been  seen,  occasioned  some  little  excitement 
in  the  minds  of  both  the  mother  and  daugh- 
ter. The  former  was  really  not  much  grati- 
fied by  the  intelligence;  while  the  latter  was 
in  ecstasies  that  it  required  all  her  self-pot- 
to control. 

', 

'. 


26  PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  YOUR  aunt  will  be  here  to-day,  Helen," 
Mrs.  Pimlico  said  to  her  daughter,  a  few 
hours  before  the  time  at  which  Mrs.  Godwin 
was  expected  to  arrive.     "  And  I  shall  expect 
to  see  you  conduct  yourself,  when  she  mokes 
ji         her  appearance,  with  a  due  sense  of  propriety 
'',         Do  not  offend  me  by  any  vulgar  excitement, 
\         with  exclamations  and  embraces  like  a  stage- 
?         actress.     Receive  your  aunt  as  every  lady 
\         receives  even  her  dearest  friend — with  calm- 
ness and  dignity.     A  smile,  a  gentle  saluta- 
ij         tion,  and  a  quiet  pressure  of  the  hand,  con- 
j         stitute  the  true  mode.    To  deviate  from  these 
materially,  is  vulgar  in  the  extreme." 

Helen  was  silent.     She  felt  that  it  would 
\         be  utterly  impossible  for  her  to  follow  the 
|         prescription  of  her  mother.     She  loved  her 
i         aunt  with   a  fervent   love;   and  when   she 
j         thought  of  meeting  her  so  soon,  she  could 
with  difficulty  keep  back   the  tears  of  joy. 
\         She  knew  that,  when  she   did  appear,  she 
could  no  more  refrain  from  throwing  herself 
into  her  arms  and  weeping  with  intense  de- 
light, than  she  could  still   the  pulsations  of 
her  heart  by  an  effort  of  the  will. 

"  Remember,"  resumed  Mrs.  Pimlico,  see- 
ing that  her  daughter  made  no  reply,  and 


L 


PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPlJE.  27 

guessing  pretty  correctly  the  reason,  "  that 
if  you  do  not  govern  yourself  by  my  direc- 
tions, I  shall  be  deeply  offended.  You  have 
now  arrived  at  a  woman's  age,  and  should 
act  like  a  woman — not  like  a  young  and  fool- 
ish school-girl." 

"  But  suppose,  Ma,  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
govern  myself?  I  love  my  aunt,  for  the  af- 
fection she  so  uniformly  showed  me  through 
all  the  time  I  was  a  member  of  her  family ; 
and  when  I  meet  her,  I  do  not  see  how  I  can 
refrain  from  expressing  all  I  feel.  Is  it  wrong 
to  feel  for  my  aunt  both  gratitude  and  affec- 
tion ?" 

"  No,  I  suppose  not." 

"  Then,  if  it  be  not  wrong  to  feel  this,  how 
can  it  be  wrong  to  show  it?  My  aunt  has 
always  told  me  that  the  natural  expression 
of  a  good  affection  cannot  be  wrong — that,  in 
fact,  unless  good  affections  are  allowed  to 
come  out  into  ultimate  action,  they  will 
perish." 

"  Your  aunt,  I  have  before  told  you,  is  not 
governed  by  the  rules  which  belong  to  good 
society.  She  knows  nothing  of  them.  If  you 
persist  in  making  her  antiquated  notions  a 
standard  of  action,  you  will  soon  be  driven  to 
the  circumference  of  the  circle  into  which  I 
am  striving  to  introduce  you.  So  far  from 
this  rule  of  feeling  coming  out  into  action, 
being  true,  at  least  for  well-bred  women,  the 
very  reverse  is  the  fact.  A  true  lady  never 


t 

ji 

28  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

\  exhibits  the  slightest  feeling  on  any  occasion. 
She  has,  at  least  to  all  appearance,  no  feel- 
ings whatever." 

"  Then,  it  seems  to  me,"  Helen  said,  "  that         £ 

I         a  woman  and  a  lady  are  two  different  things." 

"  Undoubtedly !"  was   the    reply  of  Mrs. 

Pirnlico.     "  Women  are  to  be  met  with  in 

every  circle,  but  a  lady  is  of  rare   occur- 

:         rence." 

Poor  Helen  was  deeply  disturbed  by  this 
conversation.      Her   mother's    doctrine   she 

',•  could  neither  comprehend  nor  approve.  The 
truth  of  all  Mrs.  Godwin's  precepts  had  been 
fully  apparent.  They  accorded  with  her  own 

j  rational  perceptions;  but  her  mother's  code 
of  ethics  and  rules  for  conduct  in  society, 
were,  to  her  straight-forward,  ingenuous 
mind,  wide  deviations  from  true  grounds  of 
action.  The  last,  positively  uttered  axiom, 
decided  her  to  keep  silence,  and  endeavour, 
for  her  mother's  sake,  to  be  as  composed  as  it 
was  possible  for  her  to  be  when  her  aunt 
should  appear.  A  few  hours  brought  the 
trial  of  this  composure.  Her  aunt  came  at 
the  time  she  was  expected  to  arrive.  A  car- 
riage, with  baggage  lashed  on  behind,  stopped 
before  the  house,  and,  in  a  moment  after,  the 
bell  was  rung  loudly. 

"  Oh  !     There 's  Aunt  Mary  !"  exclaimed 
Helen,  springing  up,  and  moving  quickly  to- 
wards the  door. 
He^  name,  uttered  in  a  firm,  reproving 


PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE.  21) 

tone,  and  a  steady  glance  from  Mrs.  Pimlico, 
made  her  pause,  and  then  slowly  retrace  her 
steps  and  seat  herself  in  the  spot  from  which 
she  had  arisen,  her  heart  throbbing  heavily. 
The  street-door  soon  opened — there  was  the 
sound  of  quick  footsteps  in  the  passage — and, 
in  a  moment  after,  Mrs.  Godwin  entered. 
Mrs.  Pimlico  rose  with  quiet  dignity,  and 
advanced  to  meet  her. 

"  Sister  Mary,  I  bid  you  welcome,"  she 
murmured,  in  a  calm,  yet  sweetly-modulated 
voice,  taking  the  hand  extended  by  Mrs. 
Godwin,  and  bending  to  salute  her. 

"  Aunt  Mary  !"  said  Helen,  coming  towards 
her,  not  with  a  quick,  eager  movement,  but 
with  forced  composure.  She  could  do  no 
more  than  utter  the  beloved  name.  Her  heart 
was  too  full  of  joy  repressed  by  her  mother's 
presence.  The  effort  to  give  utterance  to 
that  joy  would  have  destroyed  her  self- 
control. 

"  My  dear  Helen !  How  glad  I  am  to  see 
you !"  Mrs.  Godwin  exclaimed,  starting  for- 
ward a  few  paces  to  meet  her  niece,  and  ex- 
tending her  arms  to  embrace  her. 

For  a  single  instant,  Helen  struggled  with 
her  feelings,  and  then,  with  the  tears  of  joy 
gushing  from  her  eyes,  she  flung  herself  upon 
the  bosom  of  her  beloved  relative,  and  wept 
and  sobbed  like  a  child.  • 

Of  course,  such  an  exhibition  of  feeling  was 
an  outrage  upon  Mrs.  Pimlico. 
3* 

L 


30  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

"  Helen !"  she  said,  somewhat  sternly,  so 
soon  as  the  maiden's  emotion  had  subsided ; 
"  your  conduct  is  altogetner  unbecoming  a 
daughter  of  mine.  I  have  told  you  over  and 
over  again,  that  to  enact  a  scene  is  highly 
improper.  No  well-bred  woman  ever  suffers 
herself  to  be  betrayed  into  any  such  vulgari- 
ties. Why  will  you  oblige  me  to  allude  so 
frequently  to  these  matters  ?  And  why  mar 
the  pleasure  of  your  aunt's  visit  by  compel- 
ling me  to  reprove  you  during  the  first  few 
minutes  that  have  passed  since  her  entrance 
into  my  house?" 

"  Helen,  it  seems  to  me,  has  done  nothing 
worthy  of  reproof,"  Mrs.  Godwin  said,  after 
her  niece,  whose  heart  was  too  full  to  utter  a* 
word,  had  hastily  retired  from  the  room,  and 
she  had  gone  up  with  Mrs.  Pimlico  to  the 
chamber  assigned  to  her.  "  I  saw  only  the 
natural  expression  of  innocent  and  amiable 
feelings — such  as  I  should  encourage,  rather  \ 
than  check,  in  a  child  of  mine." 

"  Such  things  may  do  well  enough  for  or- 
dinary people,  sister  Mary,"  Mrs.  Pimlico  \ 
repied,  with  much  dignity  of  tone  and  man- 
ner. "  But  I  wish  to  make  Helen  a  well-bred 
woman,  and  well-bred  women  never  exhibit 
any  feeling." 

"  Why  not  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Godwin. 

"  Because,"  was  the  reply,  "  well-bred  peo- 
ple understand  so  thoroughly  the  true  philo- 
sophy of  life,  that  they  never  permit  anything 


PRIDE  OR  PRINCIPLE.  31 


that  occurs  to  disturb  them.  The  news  of 
the  loss  of  a  pointer,  or  the  loss  of  an  estate, 
is  received  with  like  composure  by  a  man  of 
true  breeding.  And  a  gentlewoman  exhibits, 
on  all  occasions,  the  same  absence  of  excite- 
ment. True  dignity  resides  in  calmness.  To 
be  disturbed  by  every  event,  marks  the  weak 
and  vulgar  mind." 

"  Suppose,  however,  you  are  really  dis- 
turbed by  an  event  ?" 

"  Conceal  that  inward  turbulence,  by  all 
means.  Assume  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not," 
Mrs.  Pimlico  said,  dogmatically. 

"  Then,  to  indulge  a  wrong  feeling  is  no- 
thing. The  evil  lies  in  permitting  it  to  be  seen. 
The  form  is  rendered  of  more  consequence 
than  the  substance.  The  cause  is  of  second- 
ary consideration.  It  may  be  suffered  to 
exist,  if  the  effect  can  be  concealed.  I  can- 
not believe  such  a  philosophy  to  be  the  true 
one.  It  seems  to  me  to  strike  at  the  founda- 
tion of  all  real  virtue.  It  would  make  a  com- 
munity of  hypocrites." 

"  That  is  because  you  have  not  a  just  idea 
of  what  is  meant  by  a  well-bred  woman.  She 
need  not  be  a  hypocrite.  Let  her,  as  she 
really  should,  be  internally  unexcited,  no 
matter  what  may  transpire.  Excitement 
does  no  good — then  why  indulge  it  ?  It  ever, 
as  I  have  said,  marks  a  vulgar  mind.  Events 
take  place  independent  of  our  control — why 
fret  about  them,  if  adverse  ?  or  suffer  them  to 


32  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

betray  us  into  a  school-girl's  excitement,  if 
prosperous  or  happy  ?" 

Mrs.  Godwin  did  not  reply  to  this  for  some 
moments  ;  then  she  said — 

"  I  can  see  little  in  all  this,  but  the  pride 
of  being  thought  what  we  are  not.     As  you 
have  justly  said,  it  is  the  assumption  of  a 
virtue  that  does  not  exist.     You  and  I,  and 
every  one  around  us,  even  the  most  well-bred 
stoic,  in  appearance,  that  there  is,  know  too 
well,  that  the   interior  calmness  you  would 
assume,  does  not,  and  cannot  exist  in  this  life. 
We  are,  in  reality,  creatures  of  excitement. 
We  have  joy  to-day,  and  grief  to-morrow. 
Now  swell  in  our  bosoms  emotions  of  plea- 
sure, and  now  we  are  oppressed  by  pain.    All         ? 
these  have  their  natural  language,  and,  un- 
less suffered  to  speak  out  in  some  degree,  will 
act  injuriously  on  mind  and  body.     A  strik- 
ing fact  in  illustration  of  the  injurious  effects 
of  suppressed  emotions  upon  the  body  is  given         \ 
in  some  medical  reports  to  which  my  husband         \ 
called  my  attention  recently.       Army  sur-         j 
geons  who  have  seen  much  service  on   the         ' 
field  of  battle,  state,  that  a  much  larger  pro-         \ 
portion  of  French  than  English  soldiers  who 
are  wounded   in  battle,  recover.     The  first          < 
are  not  ashamed  to  cry  out  and  groan,  and         ; 
writhe  their  bodies  from  pain  ;  while  the  lat- 
ter think  it  unbecoming  and  unmanly  to  ex- 
hibit any  strong  indications  of  suffering.    The 
free  expression  cf  the  pain  of  body  and  an 


PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE.  »  33 

guish  of  mind  they  feel,  which  is  but  the  na- 
tural language  of  suffering,  being  orderly, 
tends  to  health;  while  the  suppression  of  all 
external  signs  of  what  is  felt,  being  a  disor- 
derly and  constrained  state,  tends  to  internal 
congestion  of  the  vital  organs,  and  conse- 
quently, renders  the  condition  of  the  sufferer 
worse  by  many  degrees." 

"  But  I  cannot  see  how  this  applies  to,  or 
condemns  exterior  calmness  in  ordinary  life." 

"It  is  a  strong  example,  illustrative  of  a 
true  principle;  and  applies,  I  think,  with 
much  force  to  the  moral  condition  of  society. 
If,  from  the  mere  pride  of  exterior  compo- 
sure, all  natural  emotions  be  subdued,  it  can- 
not but  happen  that  violence  will  be  done  to 
the  mind,  as  in  the  case  of  the  soldier  it  was 
done  to  the  body.  Men  and  women,  who  thus 
suppress,  from  no  higher  ends  than  to  appear 
what  they  are  not,  the  natural  language  of 
the  feelings,  may,  perhaps,  stifle  all  really 
good  and  generous  emotions — may  become 
cold  and  heartless — but  they  will  find,  in  the 
end,  when  these  external  motives  cease  to 
influence  them,  that  the  surface  of  their  lives 
can  be  ruffled  —  not  by  the  gentle  summer 
breezes,  but  by  the  chilling  blasts  of  a  dreary 
autumn.  Depend  upon  it,  the  life  you  would  ', 
have  your  daughter  live  is  a  false  life — and 
its  consequences  will  be  lamentable.  Vio- 
lence is  never  done  to  nature,  that  she  does 
not  react  upon  that  violence,  sooner  or  later 

*  I 


34  •  PRIDE    OR   PRINCIPLE. 

with  pain.  It  is  true  of  the  body,  and  just 
as  true  of  the  mind,  from  which  the  body  ex- 
ists, and  which  employs  the  body  as  its  me- 
*  dium  of  communication  with  the  visible 
things  of  creation  in  the  material  universe. 
Do  not,  therefore,  rebuke  in  her  what  is  in-  \ 
nocent  and  orderly.  If  she  feels  a  generous 
affection  for  any  one,  let  it  appear  in  the  tone 
of  her  voice,  the  brightening  of  her  eye,  and 
even  in  warmly-spoken  words,  for  these  are 
innocent.  If  she  be  in  pain,  let  her  weep — 
it  will  do  her  good.  Let  the  internal  excite- 
ment that  is  innocent,  come  into  external 
manifestation  and  pass  off — then  it  can  do 
her  no  harm.  Imprison  this  excitement,  and 
it  will  be  in  her  bosom  like  a  hidden  ser- 
pent." 

But  Mrs.  Pimlico  neither  understood  nor 
approved  Mrs.  Godwin's  mode  of  reasoning. 
Her  replies  were  only  repeated  declarations 
of  the  social  doctrine,  that  excitement  waa 
'vulgar,  and  never  indulged  by  a  well-bred 
woman.  Pride  was  her  rule,  and  this  never 
listens  to  the  claims  of  mere  Principle. 


J 


PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE.  35 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  rebuke  which  Mrs.  Pimlico  gave  He- 
len for  her  want  of  lady-like  composure,  in- 
stead of  producing  the  desired  effect,  only 
caused  a  more  violent,  though  different  kind 
of  excitement.  On  leaving  the  presence  of 
her  mother  and  aunt,  she  retired  to  her  room, 
and  there  gave  way  to  a  fit  of  weeping,  which 
agit'ated  her  whole  frame.  It  was  fully  an 
hour  afterwards  before  she  could  so  command 
her  feelings  as  to  venture  to  make  her  ap- 
pearance. And  even  then  marks  of  tears 
were  upon  her  cheeks,  and  her  i'ace  wore  a  so- 
ber, subdued  expression.  She  found  her  aunt 
alone  in  the  parlour. 

"  I  promised  myself  so  much  happiness, 
dear  aunt !"  she  said,  with  a  trembling  voice, 
and  suffused  eyes,  "  in  seeing  you  again.  But 
the  last  hour  has  been  one  of  the  most  wretch- 
ed in  my  whole  life.  My  mother's  doctrine 
may  be  true,  but  if  it  is,  I,  for  one,  cannot 
live  up  to  it.  Such  violence  to  my  feelings  '', 
would  kill  me.  Tenderly  do  I  love  my  \ 
mother,  and  often  do  1  feel  like  throwing 
myself  into  her  arms,  and  shedding  tears 
of  affection  upon  her  bosom  —  but  I  dare 
not  do  this.  Nothing  would  offend  her  more 


36  FIUDK   OK   F&lMCIPLfi. 

than  such  a  want  of  decorum,  as  she  would 
call  it." 

To  this,  Mrs.  Godwin  hardly  knew  what 
to  reply.  She  did  not  think  it  right  openly 
to  condemn  the  mother's  unhealthy  notions 
of  external  conduct  to  her  child ;  and  yet, 
she  felt  it  to  be  her  duty  to  impart  some 
strength  to  one  who  saw  the  truer  way,  and 
wished  to  walk  in  it,  and  who  looked  up  to 
her  eagerly  for  words  of  encouragement. 
Before  she  had  time  to  reply,  Mrs.  Pimlico 
entered.  In  a  few  minutes  after,  visiters 
came  in.  They  were  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gland- 
ville,  who  stood  among  the  first  in  the  most 
accomplished  and  intelligent  circles  in  the 
city.  They  had  a  son  and  daughter,  both  of 
age,  and  both  favourites  in  society.  The  son 
was  a  very  handsome  young  man,  and  a  tho- 
rough gentleman  both  exteriorly  and  inte- 
riorly. Mrs.  Pimlico  had  often  thought  of 
him  as  the  man  of  all  others  whom  she  would 
rather  see  the  husband  of  Helen.  And  she 
had  not  scrupled  to  use  all  the  little  arts  in 
her  power  to  draw  Albert  Glandville's  atten- 
tion towards  her  daughter.  Helen's  want  of 
true  refinement  annoyed  her  particularly  on 
this  account.  Albert  was  a  thorough-bred 
gentleman,  and  could  not,  of  course,  tolerate, 
for  a  moment,  vulgarity  in  a  wife.  And  yet, 
it  could  not  be  concealed.  Helen  was  ex- 
tremely vulgar,  and  remained  so  in  spite  of 


PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE.  37 

all  Mrs.  Pimlico's  efforts  to  give  her  the  true 
polish. 

When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glandville  were  an- 
nounced, Mrs.  Pimlico  was,  at  least  internal- 
ly, much  disturbed.  They  were  people  of 
social  rank,  and  thorough  good-breeding, 
while  Mrs.  Godwin  was  only  a  common  wo- 
man ;  and  yet  she  must,  of  necessity,  intro- 
duce her  to  them,  and  as  her  sister-in-law. 
This  she  did,  with  the  manner  that  became 
a  lady,  and  soon  an  interesting  conversation 
was  entered  into  with  Mrs.  Godwin,  whose 
intelligence,  sweet  temper,  and  sound  senti- 
ments, charmed  both  of  the  visiters.  How 
they  were  affected  by  the  presence  of  Helen's 
Aunt  Mary,  their  conversation  on  leaving  the 
house  will  indicate. 

"  Really,"  said  Mr.  Glandville,  with 
warmth,  "  that  Mrs.  Godwin  is  a  charming 
woman.  It  is  a  rare  treat  to  meet  such  a 
one,  so  different  from  your  cold,  artificial  la- 
dies, of  whom  Mrs.  Pimlico  is  the  represent- 
ative." 

"  You  express  my  own  thoughts,"  Mrs. 
Glandville  replied.  "  How  simple,  and  yet 

Show  charming  are  her  manners  !  There  is  a 
summer  warmth  about  them.  And  her  face 
• — did  you  ever  see  a  countenance  that  ex- 
pressed so  much?  It  was  ever  varying  to 
the  play  of  her  thoughts  and  feelings,  and 
gave  u  peculiar  force  and  charm  to  her  r>«*'- 
mated  conversation.  I  could  noi.  neip  i» 

A 


,38  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

marking  the  contrast  between  her  and  Mrs. 
Pimlico — the  peculiar  calm,  lifeless  manner 
of  the  latter  never  appeared  to  me  in  such  an 
unfavourable  light.  She  is  a  well-bred  lady. 
But  Mrs.  Godwin  is  one  by  nature." 

"  Mrs.  Godwin  is  the  aunt  with  whom 
Helen  has  lived  for  the  last  few  years,  I  be- 
.lieve?" 

"  Yes.  And  what  is  more,  her  character 
b  evidently  formed  upon  her  model,  rather 
than  her  mother's.  Did  you  not  observe  with 
what  a  pleased  interest  she  listened  to  her 
aunt's  conversation,  and  how  coldly  and 
strangely  she  looked  at  her  mother  when  she 
spoke  1" 

"I  did  observe  something  of  the  kind.  And 
no  wonder.  There  was  substance  in  form  in 
what  was  uttered  by  the  one  —  and  form 
without  substance  in  what  was  uttered  by 
the  other." 

"A  just  distinction,  indeed,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Glandville.  "  Glad  am  I  that  we  have 
not.  a  preponderance  in  our  best  circles  of 
such  artificial  women  as  Mrs.  Pimlico;  who 
are,  at  best,  the  mere  apes  of  good-breeding, 
of  which  they  talk  so  much.  Women  who 
estimate  the  standing  and  worth  of  another 
by  the  way  she  uses  her  knife^and  fork  ;  the 
peculiar  manner  in  which  she  enters  a  room; 
or  by  her  use  of  the  words  street  door  instead 
of  front  door  —  or,  going  to  a  party,  instead 
of' attending  a  party.  Deviations  in  these 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  3W 

unimportant  matters  are  rank  outrages  against 
social  etiquette,  and  considered  offences  hein- 
ous enough  to  exclude  any  one  from  the,  by 
them  considered,  charmed  circle." 

"  No  doubt,  then,  Mrs.  Pimlico  esteems 
you  a  very  vulgar  woman,"  Mr.  Glandville 
said,  smiling,  "for  you  asked  her  if  she  would 
attend  the  concert  next  week." 

"  Did  I,  indeed  !  How  unfortunate  !  I  am 
really  afraid  I  shall  lose  caste !" 

"  And  worse  than  that,  you  were  so  much 
of  an  American  as  to  say  cotillion,  instead  of 
quadrille !" 

"  True !  So  I  did !  Well,  I  trust  to  be 
forgiven  this  time,  if  I  mend  my  manners  in 
future.  I  must  be  more  on  my  guard.  I  find 
no  difficulty  in  being  kind  and  considerate 
towards  all  I  meet,  for  then  I  act  as  I  feel. 
But  I  cannot  always  remember  the  nicer 
shades  of  arbitrary  observances ;  though  to 
sin  against  these  is  esteemed,  by  far  too  many, 
much  worse  than  to  pick  a  pocket." 

Mr.  Glandville  smiled  at  this  remark,  and 
then  changed  the  subject. 


L 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ON  the  day  but  one  following  that  on  which 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glandville  had  called,  notes  of 
invitation  came  from  them  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Pimlico,  Helen,  and  Mrs.  Godwin,  asking  the 
honour  of  their  company  for  an  evening  in  the 
J  coming  week.  The  appearance  of  these  gave 
J  Mrs.  Pimlico  both  pleasure  and  pain, — plea- 
sure, because  Helen  would  again  be  brought 
into  the  company  of  Albert  Glandville;  and 
pain,  lest  Mrs.  Godwin's  want  of  true  polish 
should  so  disgust  the  Glandvilles,  as  to  cause 
them  to  avoid  an  alliance  with  her  daughter. 
Under  the  influence  of  these  conflicting 
emotions,  the  time  passed  until  the  appointed 
evening.  During  that  period,  the  mother 
was  instant  in  season  and  out  of  season  in 
endeavouring  to  instruct  Helen  in  the  most 
refined  shades  in  the  law  of  social  etiquette 
appertaining  to  evening  parties — nor  did  she 
omit  to  give  Mrs.  Godwin  certain  hints  as  to 
proper  conduct  on  such  occasions.  But  these 
were  altogether  lost,  for  Mrs.  Godwin  had 
mingled  in  good  society  as  well  as  she,  and 
understood  well  enough  how  to  conduct  htr- 
self,  though  her  code  was  based  upon  a  prin- 
ciple of  good-will  towards  all,  and  a  desire 
to  please  in  order  to  benefit ;  while  Mrs.  Pirn- 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  41 

lico  was  influenced  merely  by  the  pride  of 
being  thought  well-bred. 

When  the  time  finally  arrived,  the  little 
family  party  was  kept  an  hour  later  than 
Mr.  Pimlico,  who  was  a  man  of  good  sense 
and  good  feelings,  deemed  it  right  to  go,  be- 
cause Mrs.  Pimlico  could  not  be  persuaded 
to  appear  before  ten  o'clock.  Well-bred  peo- 
ple, she  said,  never  went  before  ten.  At  ten, 
punctually,  their  carriage  set  them  down  be- 
fore the  beautiful  dwelling  of  Mr.  Glandville. 
A  few  minutes  afterwards,  they  entered  the 
already  crowded  rooms,  crowded  with  the 
"  best-bred"  people  of  the  city,  where,  accord- 
ing to  a  certain  writer,"  purity  of  blood"  is  the 
passport  into  the  first  circles.  Unfortunately 
for  Mrs.  Pimlico,  the  crowd  was  too  great  foV 
her  to  exhibit  the  perfect  grace  and  propriety 
•with  which  a  lady  should  enter  a  drawing- 
room — and  fortunately,  she  thought,  too  great 
for  her  vulgar  sister-in-law  to  attract  atten- 
tion. As  for  Helen,  she  felt  constrained.  She 
had  been  lectured  so  mue^  during  the  week, 
and  had  heard  so  much  of  the  absolute  im- 
portance of  a  certain  well-bred  ease,  and  a 
strict  adherence  to  certain  forms  and  observ- 
ances, that  her  freedom  was  entirely  gone. 
She  felt  awkward,  and,  what  was  worse,  act- 
ed awkwardly.  This,  the  watchful  eye  of 
her  mother  did  not  fail  to  perceive,  and  its 
real,  though  not  apparent,  effect  was  to  dis- 
turb her  deeply,  notwithstanding  her  doctrine 
4* 


42  PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE. 

that  a  real  gentlewoman,  as  she  esteemed  her- 
self, should  have  no  feeling. 

Their  entrance  was  soon  perceived  by  Mrs. 
Glandville,  who  took  especial  pains  to  intro- 
duce Mrs.  Godwin  to  the  "  first  people,"  who 
had  honoured  her  with  their  company.  The 
fact  that  she  was  the  sister-in-law  of  Mrs. 
Pimlico,  gave  her  instant  attention;  and  it 
was  not  long  before  she  formed  the  centre  of 
a  select  group  of  ladies,  each  of  whom  Mrs. 
Pimlico  considered  among  the  first  in  social 
rank.  This  put  the  latter,  well-bred  and 
perfectly  composed  under  all  circumstances, 
as  she  was,  on,  as  it  is  very  vulgarly  said, 
nettles.  She  trembled  for  the  disgrace  that 
must  inevitably  fall  upon  her  family. 

"  Mrs.  Godwin  seems  to  be  already  a  fa- 
vourite," said  Mr.  Glandville,  coming  up  to 
Mrs.  Pimlico,  whose  sensitive  nerves  would 
not  permit  her  to  make  one  with  the  group 
surrounding  her  sister-in-law.  It  was  enough 
for  her  to  know  that  she  was  disgraced,  with- 
out being  compelled  to  witness  every  shade 
and  variety  of  that  disgrace. 

To  the  remark  of  Mr.  Glandville  she  hardly 
knew  what  to  reply.  It  was  evidently  meant 
to  relieve  her  mind,  though  uttered  with  the 
full  consciousness  that  Mrs.  Godwin  was  not 
a  fit  woman  to  mingle  in  the  polished  circle 
he  had  invited  to  his  house. 

"  My  sister-in-law  is  a  very  excellent  per- 
son in  her  way,"  she  said,  after  a  momentary 


PK1UE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

embarrassment,  "  though  no  one  is  more  fully 
aware  than  myself  of  her  ignorance  in  regard 
to  those  social  accomplishments  that  mark  the 
well-bred  woman.  I  trust,  however,  that — " 

"  But,  my  dear  madam,"  interrupted  Mr 
Glandville,  with  some  surprise  in  his  manner, 
"  you  do  Mrs.  Godwin  injustice.  If  I  am  any 
judge,  I  would  pronounce  her  as  perfect  a 
lady  as  is  here  to-night.  I  have  met  no  one 
for  a  long  time  who  has  interested  me  so 
much  as  she  has  done.  Combined  with  a 
high  degree  of  intelligence,  she  unites  man- 
ners charmingly  natural,  and  in  genuine  good 
taste.  She  is  a  woman  who  thinks  and  feels, 
and,  what  is  best  of  all,  thinks  right  and  feels 
right.  She  is,  at  this  moment,  delighting 
every  one  around  her." 

This  relieved,  and  at  the  same  time  cha- 
grined, Mrs.  Pimlico.  She  was  relieved  to 
think  she  was  not  disgraced,  and  chagrined 
that  Mrs.  Godwin  was  really  eclipsing  her. 
At  the  instance  of  Mr.  Glandville,  she  joined 
the  pleasant  circle  of  which  Mrs.  Godwin 
was  a  prominent  member.  The  conversation 
had  just  taken  a  personal  turn,  which  was 
resumed,  as  soon  as  the  formalities  attending 
Mrs.  Pimlico's  presence  had  been  observed. 
The  personality  of  the  conversation  merely 
consisted  in. an  allusion,  by  a  lady,  to  Lizzy 
Malcolm,  who  was  present,  and  still  bore 
traces  of  her  recent  illness. 

"How  pale    and    feeble    Miss    Malcolm 


44  PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE 

looks,"  was  the  remark  that  turned  the  cur. 
rent  of  thought  into  a  new  channel. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "  very  pale  and  very 
feeble.  She  has  suffered  much  in  her  recent 
illness,  which  had  nearly  proved  fatal." 

'•  She  had  a  relapse,  I  believe  ?"  said  one. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  first  speaker,  "  and  it 
was  that  which  had  well-nigh  cost  her  her 
life." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  another,  "  I  have  heard 
a  curious  story  in  connection  with  this  mat- 
ter, which  I  can  hardly  believe ;  and  yet  there 
are  some  people  who  are  weak  enough,  and 
ignorant  enough,  to  do  anything.  It  is  said 
that  she  had  recovered  from  her  first  attack, 
and  ventured  out  one  fine  day  to  make  a  call 
at  some  distance  from  home.  When  she  ar- 
rived at  the  house  where  she  had  proposed  to 
make  her  visit,  it  appears  that  the  waiter  was 
asleep,  or  out  of  the  way,  and  she  rang  the 
bell  in  vain.  Both  the  lady  and  her  daughter, 
upon  whom  the  call  was  made,  saw  her  at 
the  door,  and  knew  that  she  had  been  ill,  and 
•was  very  feeble.  But  neither  of  them  would, 
open  the  street-door  for  her,  nor  suffer  a  fe- 
male servant  to  do  so,  because  that  would 
have  exposed  them,  so  they  imagined,  tq  the 
suspicion  of  being  mere  vulgar  people.  Be- 
fore the  waiter  could  be  found,  the  almost 
fainting  girl  had  to  leave  the  door,  and  with 
trembling  steps,  a  fluttering  pulse,  and  a  sud- 
den blinding  pain  in  the  head,  attempt  the 


PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE.  45 

almost  impossible  task  of  wending  her  way 
homeward.  A  few  squares  of  the  distance 
had  been  accomplished,  when  she  fortunately 
thought  of  a  friend  who  lived  near  where  she 
was.  As  she  drew  near  to  the  lady's  house, 
who  stood  really  higher  in  the  social  circle 
than  the  other,  she  saw  her  from  her  window. 
Knowing  that  Miss  Malcolm  had  been  re- 
cently ill,  and  perceiving  instantly  that  she 
walked  with  feeble  steps,  she  ran  to  the  door, 
opened  it  herself,  and,  meeting  her  halfway 
down  the  steps,  assisted  her  to  ascend  them, 
and  supported  her  into  her  parlour,  upon 
gaining  which  she  sank,  fainting,  upon  a  sofa 
It  was  the  relapse  brought  on  by  that  over- 
fatigue,  that  so  nearly  terminated  fatally." 

"Is  that  really  true?"  asked  Mr.  Gland- 
ville.  "I  heard  something  of  it  before,  but 
thought  it  an  idle  story.  I  did  not  believe 
that  any,  claiming  to  be  ladies,  could  have 
acted  so  little  like  the  character  to  which 
they  aspired." 

Mrs.  Pimlico,  as  may  well  be  supposed, 
found  it  a  very  hard  task  to  maintain  perfect 
external  composure  while  such  remarks  were 
made,  and  she  the  real  subject  of  them.  In 
spite  of  all  she  could  do,  the  blood  mounted 
rapidly  to  her  face. 

"  There  is  no  question  of  its  truth,"  said 
one,  "  for  I  had  it  from  Lizzy  Malcolm  her- 
self. She  would  not  tell  who  the  ladies  were 
only  one  of  whom,  however,  was  to  blame. 


40  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

} 

|  The  daughter,  she  said,  was  anxious  to  go  to 
the  door  and  admit  her,  as  she  had  since 
learned ;  but  her  mother  positively  interdict- 
ed so  ill-bred  an  act  as  answering  the  bell  in 

{          place  of  the  waiter." 

"  It  is  really  inconceivable,"  Mrs.  Godwin 
remarked  at  this  stage  of  the  conversation, 
"  how  any  one  can  make  so  gross  a  mistake 
as  that,  while  striving  after  true  external 
conduct.  To  be  a  lady,  is  not  to  be  tied  hand 
and  foot  by  a  set  of  rules  as  immutable  as 
the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians.  A  true 
gentlewoman  is  one  who  never  thinks  of  rules, 
much  less  talks  about  them,  or  regulates  by 
them  her  conduct.  She  regards  the  happiness 
of  every  one,  and,  in  her  social  intercourse, 
perceives  instantly  what  she  ought  to  do  or 
say  in  order  to  avoid  offending  or  injuring 
others ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  she  seeks  to 
make  them  pleased  with  themselves,  and  all 
around  them.  Her  movement  is  not  in  one 
unvarying  orbit.  Her  conduct,  always  up- 
right and  governed  by  principle,  is  never  alike 
to  every  one.  She  accommodates  herself  to 
innocent  prejudices,  and  makes  liberal  allow- 
ances for  defects  of  education  in  all  with 
whom  she  comes  in  contact;  ever  looking, 
primarily,  to  uprightness  of  character,  ra- 
ther than  to  external  accomplishment.  In  a 
word,  a  true  lady  is  governed  in  all  her  ac- 
tions by  this  high  consideration — this  purest 
law  of  etiquette — Is  it  right  ?  What  others 


L 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  47 

may  think  of  her,  or  how  others  may  estimate 
her,  never  enters  her  thoughts.  Is  it  right? 
decides  all  doubtful  questions." 

"  Happy  indeed  would  it  be,  if  all  around 
us  were  governed  by  such  a  law !"  said  Mr. 
Glandviile,  with  warmth.  "  Then  we  should 
not  have  had  our  ears  pained  by  the  recital 
of  so  gross  an  outrage  upon  good-feeling,  good- 
breeding,  and  every  generous  impulse  of  the 
human  heart,  as  that  just  alluded  to!" 

As  Mr.  Glandviile  uttered  this  sentence,  lie 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  Mrs.  Pimlico,  not  with 
design,  but  more  by  accident  than  anything 
else.  He  was  surprised  and  startled  to  see 
her  look  of  pain  and  confusion,  and  the  sud- 
den crimson  mantling  her  face.  The  truth 
instantly  flashed  upon  his  mind, and  he  paused 
in  deep  embarrassment.  All  eyes  were  in- 
stantly turned  upon  Mrs.  Pimlico,  and  all 
understood,  in  a  moment,  that  she  was  the 
one  who  had  acted  with  such  singular  folly. 
The  first  impulse  of  Mr.  Glandviile  was  to 
apologize ;  but  what  could  he  say  ?  Before 
he  could  recover  himself,  however,  Mrs.  Pim- 
lico arose  in  an  agitated  manner,  and  swept 
hurriedly  from  the  room.  Here  was  a  scene ! 
and  the  perfect  gentlewoman,  Mrs.  Pimlico, 
the  chief  actor!  The  members  of  the  little 
circle  in  which  a  place  was  made  vacant  by 
her  sudden  withdrawal,  looked  at  each  other 
for  a  moment  or  two  in  mute  surprise.  Mrs. 
Godwin  was  deeply  pained  by  this  sudden 


48  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

<  and  unlocked  for  exposure  of  her  sister-in- 
law.  Her  position  was  embarrassing  in  a 

j  high  degree.  She  was,  however,  the  first  to 
break  the  oppressive  silence,  by  saying,  in  a 

\         calm,  quiet  voice,  as  she  arose  to  her  feet — 

"  I  must,  of  course,  follow  my  sister,  and 
leave  with  her,  if  such,  as  I  presume  it  is,  be 
her  intention.  We  cannot  blame  her  for  be- 
ing deeply  hurt  at  what  has  been  said,  al- 

'         though  all  are,  I  am  assured,  alike  innocent 

\  of  any  intention  of  singling  her  out,  and 
wounding  her  feelings  by  harsh  and  censo- 
rious remarks.  The  circumstance  may  be  a 
lesson  to  us  all,  teaching  us  the  danger  of 

\  alluding  to  acts  of  unknown  persons,  in  pro- 
miscuous assemblies." 

As  Mrs.  Godwin  gracefully  bowed  to  the 

j  group  of  ladies,  and  turned  to  leave  them, 
Mr.  Glandville  came  to  her  side,  and,  offering 

(  his  arm,  conducted  her  from  the  drawing- 
room,  expressing,  as  he  did  so,  his  deep  and 
painful  regret  at  the  circumstance  which  had 
just  occurred,  and  assuring  her  of  his  entire 
ignorance  of  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Pimlico  was 
the  individual  to  whom  allusion  had  been 
made. 

"  When  we  deliberately  purpose  to  wound 
another's  feelings,"  Mrs.  Godwin  said,  "  then 

j         we  are  to  be  censured.     But  where  an  act  is 

j  done  with  no  such  intent,  and  the  injury  could 
not  have  been  guarded  against  by  ordinary 
foresight,  we  are  to  suppose  that  the  circum- 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  49 

stance  has  been  permitted  to  occur  for  some 
good  end.  I  have  no  doubt  that  such  is  the 
case  in  the  present  instance.  The  violent 
shock  my  sister's  feelings  have  sustained, 
will,  I  trust,  give  her  clearer  views  in  regard 
to  her  social  duties.  If  this  be  the  result,  none  ^ 
of  us  need  blame  ourselves  very  deeply." 

"  I  think  not,"  Mr.  Glandville  replied,  a 
good  deal  relieved  by  the  calm,  philosophical 
way  in  which  Mrs.  Godwin  alluded  to  the 
unpleasant  subject.  By  this  time,  they  had 
gained  the  apartment  to  which  Mrs.  Pimlico 
had  retired.  She  was  already  more  than 
half-attired  for  departure. 

"  May  I  trouble  you  to  ask  my  husband  to 
step  here,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Glandville,  with 
remarkable  self-composure,  considering  the 
little  time  that  had  passed  since  the  unplea 
sant  scene  in  the  drawing-room. 

Mr.  Glandville  bowed,  and  withdrew  in 
silence  to  fulfil  her  request.  To  Mr.  Pimlico 
he  briefly  explained,  as  well  as  he  could,  the 
unpleasant  circumstance,  and  then  went  in 
search  of  his  wife,  to  whom  he  communicated, 
more  comprehensively,  the  incident  that  had 
occurred  so  inopportunely.  Mrs.  Glandville 
was  much  disturbed.  She  attended,  how- 
ever, the  offended  lady,  and  endeavoured  to 
prevail  upon  her  not  to  leave  so  abruptly,  but 
without  effect. 

"  You  are  not  going  without  Helen  ?"  Mrs. 
5 


.V., ^ 

\ 

I  50  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

Godwin  said,  as  Mrs.  Pimlico  moved  towards 

I         the  door. 

"  The  carriage  can  return  for  her,"  was  the 
reply.     "  If  you  will  remain,  and  accompany 

{         her  home,  you  will  oblige  me." 

\  Mrs.  Godwin  readily  assented  to  this  ar- 

rangement, greatly  to  the  satisfaction  of  Mrs. 
Glandville,  who  was  charmed  with  her  man- 
ners, as  much  as  her  husband  had  been  with 
her  conversation. 

"  Helen  must  not  be  informed  of  this,"  she 
said,  as  she  drew  her  arm  within  that  of  Mrs. 
Godwin,  and  descended  to  join  the  company. 
"Her  mother  will  hardly  allude  to  the  sub- 
ject herself,  and,  as  Helen  is  innocent  in  the 
matter,  though  in  some  sense  an  actor,  I  do 
not  think  her  feelings  should  be  wounded  by 
a  knowledge  of  what  has  occurred  to-night." 
"  From  my  heart  I  thank  you  for  that  kind 
thought  and  kind  intention,"  Mrs.  Godwin 
said.  "  Of  course  that  dear  girl  is  innocent. 
She  has  been  like  a  daughter  io  me  for  the 
last  four  years,  and  I  know  her  to  be  as  dif- 
ferent from  what  that  act  would  represent 

\         her,  as  day  is  from  night.     If  ever  there  was 

|  a  lovely  disposition,  hers  is  one.  And  with 
her  sweetness  and  innocence,  there  is  a  force 
of  character,  and  a  love  of  the  truth  for  its 
own  sake,  rarely  to  be  found.  There  are 
few,  Mrs.  Glandville,  so  worthy  of  esteem 
and  love  as  Helen  Pimlico." 


PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE.  51 

"I  believe  you,"  was  the  simple,  but  ear- 
nest reply,  as  the  two  entered  the  crowded 
rooms  below. 

"  I  shall  have  to  scold  Albert  a  little,  I  'm 
afraid,"  Mrs.  Glandville  remarked,  in  a  laugh- 
ing way,  to  Mrs.  Godwin,  as  the  two  moved 
amid  the  gay  throng.  "See!  He  is  still 
monopolizing  Helen.  And  that  I  don't  think 
quite  fair,  particularly  as  he  is  in  his  own 
house,  and  therefore  bound  to  be  more  gene- 
ral in  his  attentions." 

Mrs.  Godwin  smiled,  but  made  no  reply. 
She  had  heard  her  sister-in-law,  more  than 
once,  allude  to  Albert  Glandville  in  terms  of 
as  warm  approval  as  she  allowed  herself  to 
bestow  on  any  one.  This  had  rather  tended 
to  prejudice  her  mind  against  him,  than  im- 
press her  favourably.  The  discovery  that 
his  father  and  mother  were  well-bred  in  the 
genuine  senses,  tended,  however,  to  modify 
her  almost  involuntary  opinion,  and  caused 
her  to  feel  a  glow  of  pleasure  at  the  remark 
of  Mrs.  Glandville,  which  plainly  indicated 
that  her  son  was  more  than  ordinarily  pleased 
•with  Helen. 

"  Martin,"  said  Mrs.  Glandville,  a  moment 
after,  to  a  young  man  whose  side  she  had 
gained,  "you  see  Albert  and  Miss  Pimlico, 
there?" 

"  I  do,"  was  the  smiling  reply,  accompa- 
nied by  an  arch  look. 

"  Very  well.     I  want  you  to  ask  Helen  to 


*  .rvv^^-wv^^  -v-x 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

dance  with  you  in  the  next  cotillion.  Do 
you  understand  ?" 

"Oyesl    Perfectly." 

"And  jou  will  do  it?" 

"  Of  course  I  will.  The  fact  is,  Albert  has 
not  acted  fairly  in  monopolizing,  as  he  has 
done,  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  room." 

"  Come,  come,  Martin,  that  won't  do. 
Such  distinctions,  openly  expressed,  and  espe- 
cially to  a  partial  mother,  are  out  of  place. 
Remember,  that  I  have  a  daughter  in  the 
room." 

The  colour  rose  to  the  young  man's  face, 
as  he  replied  quickly — 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Glandville.  I  spoke  but 
half  in  earnest.  Still,"  and  his  voice  was 
serious,  "  there  is  no  disguising  the  fact,  that 
Helen  Pimlico  is  a  lovely  girl.  Lovely  in 
person,  mind,  and  manner;  although  to  me 
aot  half  so  lovely  as " 

The  name  was  spoken  in  a  tone  so  low  that 
it  was  heard  only  by  the  ear  for  which  it  w&s 
intended. 

"  Hush,  Martin  !  You  are  forgetting  your- 
self all  around,"  Mrs.  Glandville  returned, 
pleasantly.  "  But  go,  and  do  as  I  wish  you. 
Let  me  see  you  in  the  next  set  with  Helen 
for  your  partner." 

The  young  man  gave  a  smiling  assent,  and 
turned  away  towards  the  part  of  the  room 
where  Albert  and  Helen  were  standing. 

All  this  passed  while  Mrs.  Godwin  was  bv 


PRIDE  Oil  PRINCIPLE.  54 

the  side  of  Mrs.  Glandville.  Of  course  she 
heard  the  whole  conversation. 

"  Your  niece  is  quite  a  favourite,  you  see," 
the  latter  remarked,  as  the  young  man  she 
had  addressed  moved  away.  "  And,  let  me 
add,  deservedly  so.  Even  my  own  son  is  so 
far  forgetting  himself,  as  to  be  negligent  of 
his  attentions  to  others,  in  the  pleasure  he 
derives  from  her  society.  This  cannot  but 
be  gratifying  to  you,  who  love  her  so  well." 

"  To  me  it  is  doubly  gratifying,"  replied 
Mrs.  Godwin.  "  The  attentions  she  wins  are 
but  a  just  tribute  to  her  real  worth.  To  see 
them  bestowed  is  very  pleasant.  But  the  grat- 
ification I  feel  has  a  deeper  source.  My  aim, 
in  all  my  instruction  and  example,  has  been 
to  imbue  her  mind  with  those  genuine  graces, 
which,  when  they  flow  forth  into  external 
life,  are  lovely  far  beyond  any  mere  artificial 
accomplishments  that  can  be  given.  1  have 
constantly  striven  to  give  her  the  spirit  of 
tkose  external  graces  that  make  our  conduct 
in  life  beautiful  to  be  seen.  Opposed  to  this, 
since  her  return,  has  been  her  mother's  sys- 
tem, of  which  I  have  heard  much  during  my 
visit.  A  rigid  adherence  to  fixed  and  arbi- 
trary forms,  without  a  thought  of  anything 
beneath  then),  is  the  all-in-all  of  this  system. 
I  have  been  told,  that  no  one  is  received  into 
£ood  society  who  is  not  thus  refined — the  out- 
hide  of  whose  cup  and  platter  is  not  thorough- 
ly clean.  What  is  inside  it  seems  is  of  little 
5* 


54  PRIDE    OR    PRINCI1LE. 

or  no  importance.   But  I  have  seen  and  heard 

5  enough  this  evening  to  satisfy  me  that  in  your 
higher  circles  there  prevails  a  just  apprecia- 
tion of  those  external  beauties  of  conduct 
that  spring  spontaneously  from  an  overflow- 

<         ing  good  will    to  all,  united  with  a  refined 
taste,  and  an  intellect  highly  cultivated." 
"  And  ever  may  such  an  appreciation  of 

•  internal  worth  remain,"  replied  Mrs.  Gland- 
ville.  "  Mere  rules  of  etiquette  are  for  those, 

|  and  those  alone,  who  have  no  innate  percep- 
tion of  how  a  lady  or  gentleman  ought  to  act 
in  social  intercourse.  For  such,  these  are 
necessary,  and  an  observance  of  these  rules 

\  makes  them  tolerable.  Without  them,  they 
would  give  offence  to  good  taste  on  all  occa- 
sions." 

"  The  evil  is,  that  they  are  so  often  substi- 
tuted for  the  real  gold,"  returned  Mrs.  God- 
win. "  The  counterfeit  passes  current  with 
far  too  many,  who  cannot  tell  the  real  coin 

j  from  the  spurious; — who  are  dazzled  with 
the  guilded  surface  of  the  one,  while  they 

;  turn  away  from  the  less  showy  but  genuine 
exterior  of  the  other." 

"  We  have  far  too  many  of  the  class  you 
designate,"  Mrs.  Glandville  said,  in  reply  to 
this.  "  But  their  number  is,  I  believe,  fast 
diminishing.  Good  sense  is  becoming  daily 

;  more  fashionable.  We  have  among  us  men 
and  women,  whose  standing  gives  them  con- 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  55 

sideration,  who  dare  to  think  for  themselves, 
and  19  act  for  themselves  independent  of  all 
arbitrary  forms,  or  the  dictates  of  any  mere 
prevailing  custom.  These  exert  a  silent,  but 
powerful,  and  salutary  influence.  In  a  few 
years,  I  trust  that  a  mere  servile  imitation 
of  the  foreign  man  and  woman  of  fashion 
will  be  esteemed  a  disgrace  in  American  so- 
ciety;— that,  to  be  well-bred,  will  mean  t« 
be  a  gentleman  and  lady  in  heart.  But  I 
must  not,  in  thus  discoursing  of  what  is  right 
in  external  deportment,  forget  that  all  here 
require  attentions  alike." 

As  Mrs.  Glandville  said  this,  she  led  Mrs. 
Godwin  to  a  group  of  ladies,  presented  her, 
introduced  a  subject  of  conversation,  and 
then  turned  away  to  see  that  others  of  her 
guests  were  enjoying  themselves  as  well  as 
these. 

The  young  man  whom  Mrs.  Glandville  had 
called  Martin,  soon  had  Helen  Pimlico  for  a 
partner,  not  much,  however,  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  Albert  Glandville,  who,  in  spite  of 
himself,  felt  stupid  the  moment  he  found  it 
incumbent  on  him  to  make  himself  agreeable 
to  other  young  ladies.  Although  he  had, 
already,  danced  twice  with  Helen,  he  watch- 
ed for  the  opportunity  of  asking  her  to  be- 
come his  partner  again,  so  soon  as  the  cotil- 
lion in  which  she  was  engaged  to  Martin 
should  be  finished.  But  he  was  not  quick 


66  PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE. 

enough.  Her  hand  was  secured  before  he 
could  make  his  way  to  her  side.  And  so  it 
continued  throughout  the  evening.  He  was 
not  again  favoured  with  her  as  a  partner 
either  in  dancing,  promenading,  or  at  the  sup- 
per-table. He  could  not  conceal  from  him- 
self that  he  felt  strangely  dull,  and  that  it 
required  his  utmost  efforts  to  compel  himself 
to  be  agreeable  to  other  young  ladies. 

As  for  Helen,  she  was  pleased  with  his 
attentions,  but  in  no  way  disappointed  when 
others  asked  her  hand  in  the  dance,  or  lin- 
gered with  pleased  interest  by  her  side.  Her 
young  heart  beat  in  unison  with  the  happy 
circle  of  which  she  made  a  part.  It  was  a 
festive  occasion,  and  she  entered  into  it  with 
a  glad  spirit. 


TRIBE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  57 


CHAPTER  vi  : 

MRS.  PIMLICO  returned  home  silent  ana 
gloomy.  She  had  not  taken  half  a  dozen 
steps  on  leaving  the  little  circle  whose  free 
expression  of  opinion  upon  her  conduct  had 
excited  and  wounded  her,  before  she  was 
painfully  conscious  that  she  had  forfeited  her 
claims  to  being  well-bred,  by  enacting  a  scene. 
The  manner  of  Mr.  Glandville  satisfied  her 
that  he  was  innocent  of  any  intention  of  in- 
sulting her.  There  was,  therefore,  no  excuse 
for  her  loss  of  self-possession,  which  she  ought, 
as  a  lady,  to  have  maintained  under  all  cir- 
cumstances. The  consciousness  of  this  pain- 
fully mortified  her,  even  more  than  the  cen- 
sure that  had  been  passed  upon  her  conduct. 
What  she  had  done,  had  been  done  in  accord- 
ance with  the  requisitions  of  a  law  of  eti- 
quette. She  had  acted  in  obedience  to  that 
law,  and  there  rested  her  justification.  Still, 
there  was  a  common-sense  truthfulness  about 
Mrs.  Godwin's  remarks,  which  had  been  re- 
ceived with  evident  satisfaction  and  full  as- 
sentation by  all  who  had  heard  her;  and 
among  these  were  those  who  stood  high 
as  exponents  of  true  social  laws.  The  fact 
that  they  approved  these  sentiments,  gave 


58  PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

them  a  force  in  her  mind,  far  above  what  the 
mere  annunciation  of  them  by  her  sister-in- 
j         law  could  possibly  have  had,  especially  as 
|         they  were  strongly  condemnatory  of  her  con- 
duct, which  was  merely  the  offspring  of  pride. 
These   facts  awoke  in  her  mind  conflicting 
thoughts,  with  suddenly  awakening  doubts  as 
to  whether  she  were  not,  in  her  eager  desire 
to  be  a  thorough-bred  gentlewoman,  actually 
violating  the  real  principles  from  which  every 
\         lady  ought  to  act. 

Thus  mortified,  pained,  and  perplexed,  did 
Mrs.  Pimlico  return  to  her  home,  after  leav- 
\         ing  the  brilliant  and  happy  company  at  Mrs 
Glandvilles.     The   fact,  that  her  sister,  of 
\         whose  vulgarity  she  had  been  ashamed,  should 
ij         have  made  such  a  favourable  impression,  and 
I         have  been  pronounced  by  one  whose  opinion 
\         in  such  matters  none  would   think  of  ques- 
;         tioning,  a  genuine  lady,  stung  her  a  good  deal, 
more  especially  as  she  had  not  attracted  any 
attention  at  first,  and  had  been  finally  con- 
demned by  all  who  had  expressed  an  opinion, 
jj         as  having  acted  in  most  gross  violation  of 
lady-like  principles. 

In  silence  she  rode  home  —  in  silence  en- 
tered the  house — and  in  silence  retired  to  her 
chamber  and  her  bed  ;  but  not  to  sleep.    Her 
^         mind  was  in  a  tumult,  that  seemed  less  and 
\         less  disposed  to  subside,  the  more  her  thoughts 
\         dwelt  upon  the  events  of  the  evening.     For, 
the  more  abstractly  and  intently  she  reflected 


L 


PRIDE    OR   PRINCIPLE.  59 

upon  what  had  taken  place,  and  pondered 
over  what  had  been  said,  the  less  satisfied  did 
she  become  with  herself.  Every  now  and 
then  a  truth,  opposed  to  her  peculiar  notions 
of  things,  would  gleam  up  distinctly  in  her 
mind,  contrasted  with  her  opposite  views,  and 
cause  her  heart  to  bound  with  a  quicker  pul- 
sation, and  the  blood  to  burn  upon  her  cheeks. 
The  consequences  of  her  conduct  towards  the 
Misses  Malcolm,  much  as  she  tried  to  per- 
suade herself  that  she  had  acted  right,  too 
palpably  demonstrated  the  folly  of  making 
arbitrary  laws  superior  to  common  percep- 
tions of  right.  But  what  tended  partially  to 
dash  the  scales  from  her  eyes,  was  the  fact, 
that,  while  she  had  built  so  much  upon  a 
strict  adherence  to  form,  under  all  circum- 
stances, the  very  persons  whom  she  had  sup- 
posed equally  tenacious  with  herself,  did  not 
hesitate  to  declare,  that  the  internal  spirit  of 
kindness  to  all  was  superior  to  the  mere  dead 
external.  That  they  were  right,  some  remains 
of  common  sense  plainly  told  her,  although 
she  but  half  believed  this  kind  of  vulgar  tes- 
timony. 

On  the  next  morning,  she  met  Mrs.  God- 
win and  Helen,  with  perfect  self-possession, 
and  with  her  usual  calm  manner.  The  lat- 
ter was  entirely  ignorant  of  the  reason  of  her 
mother's  withdrawal  from  the  party.  In  fact, 
she  was  not  aware  that  she  had  gone  home 
until  aboul  to  go  herself,  and  then  the  remark 


00  PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE. 

that  her  mother  had  wished  to  leave  at  an 
earlier  hour,  satisfied  her.  Mrs.  Pimlico 
avoided  any  allusion  to  the  previous  evening; 
and  Helen,  fearful  that  some  breach  of  pro- 
priety had  been  observed  by  her,  shunned 
any  allusion  herself,  lest  a  rebuke  and  lecture 
should  follow.  As  for  Mrs.  Godwin,  she  was 
too  much  of  a  lady  to  touch  upon  any  sub- 
ject that  she  knew  would  give  another  pain. 
The  party  at  Mrs.  Glandville's,  was,  there 
fore,  by  tacit  consent,  an  interdicted  subject. 

\  Much  to  Helen's  relief,  the  day  passed  with- 
out any  allusion  to  the  Glandvilles,  or  any 
rebuke  for  violated  laws  of  social  inter- 

j          course. 

On  the  fourth  day,  a  good  deal  to  Mrs. 
Godwin's  surprise,  the  carriage  was  ordered, 
and  Mrs.  Pimlico  gave  notice  that  she  was 
about  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Glandville,  and  wish- 
ed her  sister-in-law  and  Helen  to  accompany 
her.  They  went,  of  course.  Mrs.  Pimlico 
met  Mrs.  Glandville,  and  even  her  husband, 
who  happened  to  be  at  home,  with  the  most 
perfect  ease  and  self-possession — sat  for  some 
ten  or  twenty  minutes,  conversing  freely  all 
the  while,  and  then  returned  to  her  carriage 
with  Mrs.  Godwin  and  Helen,  and  proceeded 
to  make  several  other  calls,  and,  among  others, 
upon  one  or  two  of  the  ladies  who  had  made 
so  free  to  condemn  her  conduct.  With  these 
she  was  as  self-possessed  as  she  had  been  at 
Mrs.  Glandville's,  and  interchanged  with 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  61 

them  the  compliments  of  the  day,  and  enter- 
ed into  the  passing  gossip  of  the  hour  as  freely 
as  she  had  ever  done  before. 

At  all  this,  Mrs.  Godwin  was  somewhat 
surprised.  She  could  not  but  admire  the  per- 
fect acting  of  Mrs.  Pimlico,  which  involved 
a  most  powerful  effort  of  self-control.  Few 
women  could  have  so  admirably  sustained  a 
part  in  life  as  difficult  to  perform;  but  pride 
was  a  powerful  motive  in  the  breast  of  Airs. 
Pimlico,  and  carried  her  safely  over  the  try- 
ing effort  to  break  down  the  barrier  that  her  > 
own  want  of  self-possession  had  thrown  up. 
But,  from  that  time  she  was  a  changed  wo- 
man. Conscious  that  she  had  carried  her 
rigid  practice  of  rules  of  conduct  to  an  ex- 
treme that  had  attracted  toward  her  annoy- 
ing attention,  and  stirred  up  in  the  minds 
of  even  the  most  fastidious  a  question  as  to 
the  superiority  of  form  over  substance,  she 
deemed  it  but  prudent  to  tnke  an  unobtru- 
sive course,  and  thus  suffer  matters  quietly 
to  come  back  to  a  state  of  equilibrium.  Sat- 
isfied in  her  own  mind  that  Helen  knew  all 
about  the  occurrence  at  Mrs.  Glandville's, 
she  avoided  saying  anything  further  to  her 
about  the  observance  of  all  the  arbitrary 
forms  of  an  over-strained  etiquette ;  and,  in  a 
little  while,  her  daughter  began  to  feel  more 
freedom,  and  to  act  with  the  ease,  grace,  and 
propriety  so  natural  to  her.  This  was  a 
source  of  much  gratification  to  Mrs.  Godwin. 


02  PRIDE   OR   PRINCIPLE. 

A  few  weeks  passed  away,  and  the  time 
for  Aunt  Mary  to  return  home  arrived. 

"  I  am  no  doubt  a  little  selfish,"  she  said 
to  Mrs.  Pimlico,  a  few  days  before  her  depar- 
ture; "  but  I  cannot  help  wishing  to  rob  you 
of  Helen,  even  though  she  has  been  with  you 
so  short  a  time.  Don't  you  think  you  could 
spare  her  for  a  month  or  two,  or  three  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know  what  to  say,  about  that," 
was  the  somewhat  indifferent  reply  of  the 
mother,  who  had  given  up  all  idea  of  gaining 
Albert  Glandville  for  her  daughter's  husband, 
since  her  own  unfortunate  blunder.  "  You 
must  sound  Mr.  Pimlico  on  that  subject.  I 
don't  know  what  he  will  say.  But,  as  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  if  it  is  Helen's  wish,  I  shall 
not  object  to  her  return  with  you  for  a  short 
time." 

Mr.  Pimlico,  after  some  reflection,  consent- 
ed, and  much  to  Helen's  delight,  she  learned 
that  she  was,  once  more,  even  though  for  but 
a  short  period,  to  become  a  member  of  her 
aunt's  quiet  and  well-arranged  household. 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE.  01 


CJUPTER  VII. 

"  IT  seems  that  we  are  going  to  lose  Helen 
Pimlico,  just  as  we  have  become  so  well  ac- 
quainted with  her  as  to  admire  her  for  her 
elevated  character  and  simple  manners,  and 
love  her  for  her  purity  of  heart,"  Mrs.  Gland- 
ville  said,  one  evening,  after  the  tea  things 
had  been  removed,  and  the  family  had  assem- 
bled for  social  intercourse. 

"How  so?"  asked  her  son  Albert  in  a 
voice  that  betrayed  some  surprise  and  disap- 
pointment, and  a  good  deal  of  interest. 

"  Mrs.  Godwin  called  to-day,  and  mention- 
ed that  Helen  was  going  to  return  with  her 

and  spend  a  few  months  in  B ,"  replied 

Mrs.  Glandville. 

"  I  wish  her  aunt  were  her  mother,"  Al- 
bert said,  half  to  himself,  yet  aloud. 

"  Why  so,  my  son  1" 

The  young  man  looked  up  with  a  slight 
air  of  confusion  into  his  mother's  face,  and 
said — 

"  Because,  her  aunt  is  a  real  lady,  while 
her  mother  is  only  one  in  appearance,  and 
not  always  even  in  that,  as  much  parade  and 
pretension  as  she  makes." 


{  64  PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE. 

"But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Helen?" 
asked  Mrs.  Glandville,  looking  steadily  at  her 
son. 

"  Oh  !  as  to  that — it 's  a  pity  for  any  young 
\         lady  not  to  have  a  true  gentlewoman  for  u 
mother,  that  is  all,"  Albert  returned,  smiling 
with  recovered  ease  and  self-possession. 

"So  I  think  myself,"  Mr.  Glandville  re- 

{         marked.     "  But  a  good  aunt  is  an  excellent 

*         substitute  in  the  case,  especially  if  a  niece 

\         have  the  privilege  of  residing  with  her,  even 

^         for  a  short  period.    I  am  glad  Helen  is  going 

home  with  her  aunt,  even  if  we  do  lose  the 

pleasure  of  her  society.     She  is  better  with 

Mrs.  Godwin  than  with  her  mother." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  was  the  rather  absent  re- 
ply of  Albert  Glandville,  who  had  thought  a 
good  deal  more  about  Helen  in  the  last  few 
weeks  than  he  cared   that  any  one  should 
I         know. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glandville  exchanged  quiet, 
intelligent  glances  with  each  other,  and  then 
changed  the  theme  of  conversation. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  Albert 
Glandville  went  into  his  mother's  room,  and 
seating  himself  by  her  side,  asked,  in  a  voice 
intended  to  be  careless  and  unconcerned,  but 
which,  nevertheless,  was  far  enough  from  be- 
ing so, 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Helen  Pimlico, 
mother?" 


PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE.  65 

"  Why  do  you  ask,  my  son  ?  Or  rather,  in 
what  that  respects  her  do  you  wish  my  opin- 
ion ?" 

"  O,  of  nothing  particular.  But  what  is 
your  general  opinion  of  her  character  ?  Do 
you  think  well  of  her?  But  I  needn't  ask 
that,  for  I  know  you  do.  What,  then,  do  you 
— I  mean — that  is " 

"  Nonsense,  Albert !  Speak  out  like  a 
man." 

"  Well,  then,  to  speak  out  like  a  man,  as 
you  say — I  have  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  He- 
len. What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  much  wonder  at  it. 
Everybody  is  pleased  with  her,  and  it  would 
be  a  little  strange  if  you  formed  the  excep- 
tion." 

"  But  I  am  particularly  pleased  with  her. 
That  is,  pleased  with  her  in  a  particular 
way." 

"  Are  you  indeed !"  Mrs.  Glandville  said, 
with  a  smile  that  set  the  young  man's  heart 
at  rest  as  far  as  she  was  concerned.  "  But, 
are  you  not  aware,"  she  resumed,  with  affect- 
ed seriousness,  "  that  Helen  is  not  the  pink 
of  good-breeding  ?  that  she  betrays,  at  times, 
the  fact  that  she  has  a  heart  warm  and  gene 
rous  ?" 

"  I  am  well  aware  of  that  defect,  or  pecu- 
liar merit,  just  as  you  please  to  consider  it. 
She  certainly  is  not  quite  so  high-bred  as  her 
6*  ' 


66  PRIDE    OR  PRINCIPLE. 

mother;  but  as  society  is  fast  degenerating 
in  this  respect,  it  won't  matter  a  great  deal. 
Her  want  of  true  polish  will  not  attract  very 
marked  notice.  Seriously,  however,  I  wish 
to  consult  with  you,  as  my  mother,  in  regard 
to  Helen.  I  have  never  seen  any  one  whose 
character  has  so  pleased  me;  nor  any  one 
whose  person  and  accomplishments  so  won 
my  admiration.  There  is  something  so  pure 
about  her  feelings,  and  something  so  chaste 
and  appropriate  in  all  she  says  and  does,  that 
I  never  meet  her  without  being  charmed. 
Tell  me,  then,  in  a  word,  how  you  would  like 
to  have  her  for  a  daughter  ?" 

"  Then  you  are  really  serious  in  this  mat- 
ter  ?" 

"  I  am  indeed." 

"  I  know  of  no  reason,  my  son,"  Mrs. 
Glandville  said,  "  why  I  should  make  the 
slightest  opposition,  so  far  as  Helen  is  con- 
cerned. I  love  her  already  almost  as  ten- 
derly as  if  she  were  my  daughter.  Her  mo- 
ther, however,  does  not  please  my  fancy, 
altogether.  Her  outrageous  violation  of  true 
lady-like  conduct  in  the  case  of  Lizzy  Mal- 
colm and  her  sister,  I  can  neither  forget  nor 
forgive." 

"  I  have  thought  of  all  that,"  replied  Al- 
bert, "  and  found  it  hard  to  get  over.  But 
it  seems  to  me  scarcely  right  to  visit  the  mo- 
ther's sins  upon  the  child." 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 

"  It  certainly  is  not.     And  if  you  are  wil- 

.ing  to  tolerate   Mrs.  Pimlico,  I,  of  course, 

/         ought   not   to  object.     But  Helen  is  going 

to  leave  us,  as  you  are  aware,  in  a  day  or 

j          two." 

"  I  know  that.  And  this  is  why  I  have 
introduced  the  subject  to  you  just  at  this 
time." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  prevent  her  going?" 

Albert  paused  some  time  before  he  replied. 
He  then  said — 

"  No — I  believe  I  do  not  care  to  do  so.  I 
will  let  her  go,  and  then  think  more  seriously 
of  the  matter.  If  my  mind  retains  its  pre- 
sent preference,  I  will  write  to  her,  a-nd  thus 
ascertain  how  far  my  regard  is  reciprocat- 
ed." 

Mrs.  Glandville  fully  approved  this  course. 

"  In  her  aunt,"  she  said,  "  she  has  a  perfect 
pattern.  You  need  have  no  fear  for  her, 
while  under  the  roof  of  Mrs.  Godwin.  In- 
deed, seeing  that  matters  have  taken  this 
turn,  I  cannot  but  feel  glad  that  Helen  is  go- 
ing to  spend  a  few  months  with  her.  She  is 
just  now  at  that  age  when  her  habits  and 
principles  are  beginning  to  harden  into  per- 
manent forms.  The  moulding  hand  of  Mrs. 
Godwin  will  be  everything  to  her." 

"  You  are  right,"  the  young  man  returned. 
"  Let  her  go.  It  will  be  best  for  her  in  any 
event." 


68  PRIDE   OR   PRINCIPLE. 

A  few  days  afterwards,  Helen  parted  with 
her  father  and  mother,  and  went  back  to  her 
old  home.     To  the  father,  this  was  a  strong 
trial.     The  short    period   that    had    elapsed 
since  his  daughter's  return,  after  having  com- 
pleted her  course  of  instruction,  had  served  to         j 
make  him  better  acquainted  with  her  charac- 
ter, and  the  affectionate  sweetness  of  herd  is-         $ 
position,  than  he  had  ever  been.     But  he  was         j 
a  man  of  sense,  and  saw  that  his  wife  was 
not  the  one  to  bring   to  a  healthy  maturify 
Helen's  rapidly  developing  mind.     In  Mrs. 
Godwin  he  had  full  confidence;  and  for  the         / 
sake  of  his  child,  he   was   willing  to   make 
some  temporary  sacrifices.    As  for  Mrs.  Pim- 
lico,  she  deemed  all  hope  of  making  an  im-        < 
pression  upon  young  Glandville  at  an  end. 
Helen,  she  could  not  conceal   from   herself,         '> 
was  becoming  less  and  less  refined  every  day,        jj 
according  to  her  standard.     That  calm,  dig-         £ 
nified  exterior  under  all  circumstances,  which 
was  so  essential  to  a  well-bred  woman,  it  was         \ 
too  lamentably  apparent  Helen  did  not  pos- 
sess.    She  had  feelings,  and  what  was  more,        ', 
let  those  feelings  too  often  express  themselves         \ 
in  appropriate  language.     Under  these  cir 
cumstances,    she   was    rather    pleased    than 
otherwise,  at  Mrs.  Godwin's  proposition  for 
Helen  to  return  with  her.     In  parting,  some         \ 
natural  emotions  were  felt,  but  nothing  in  tho         / 
expression  of  her  countenance,  or  tone  3f  her         j 


PRIDE   OR    PRINCIPLE.  DU 

voice,  betrayed  them.  She  was  still  resolv~ 
ed  to  be  a  lady,  even  if  she  had,  once  in  her 
life,  been  betrayed  into  the  enactment  of  a 
scene. 

About  three  weeks  after  Helen  had  become 
again  a  member  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godwin's 
family,  her  uncle  handed  her,  one  evening, 
when  he  came  in  from  his  office,  a  letter,  di- 
rected in,  to  her,  an  unknown  hand.  She 
broke  the  seal,  and,  glancing  at  the  signature, 
perceived  the  name  of  Albert  Glandville.  A 
quick  throb  of  the  heart  sent  the  blood  to  her 
cheeks,  and  produced  a  slight  agitation.  Per- 
ceiving that  she  had  lost  her  self-possession, 
she  arose  and  retired  to  her  chamber,  there 
to  read  her  letter  alone.  Of  its  contents,  we 
need  say  but  little,  except  that  it  contained, 
among  other  things,  a  direct  offer  of  mar- 
riage. Neither  need  we  present  Helen  under 
the  various  aspects  of  a  pondering,  consult- 
ing, and  finally  consenting  maiden.  Matters 
like  these  are  better  left  to  the  reader's  fancy, 
who  will  dress  them  according  to  his  or  her 
own  taste. 

No  less  surprised  was  Mrs.  Pimlico,  a  few 
weeks  afterwards,  to  learn  from  her  husband 
that  a  formal  application  had  been  made  to 
him  for  the  hand  of  their  daughter,  by  Albert 
Glandville.  She  could  hardly  credit  the  fact. 
It  seemed  improbable  that  so  highly  polished 
and  refined  a  young  man  could  prefer  Helen, 


70 


PRIDE    OR    PRINCIPLE. 


of  whose  defects  in  regard  to  external  accom- 
plishments, no  one  was  more  conscious  than 
herself,  even  if  she  were  her  mother. 

But  the  early  return  of  Helen,  and  the  sub- 
sequent brilliant  marriage  festivities,  finally 
expelled  all  doubts.  And  while,  as  a  mother, 
she  could  not  help  feeling  deeply  gratified  at 
the  event,  yet,  as  a  lady,  she  was  compelled 
to  mourn  over  the  melancholy  declension  that 
had  taken  place  in  regard  to  those  high-bred 
usages  that  so  palpably  distinguish  the  true 
gentlewoman  from  the  mere  parvenue.  Had 
this  not  been  the  case,  a  woman  like  Mrs 
Godwin  could  never  have  eclipsed  one  so  re 
fined  and  polished  as  herself;  nor  could  hei 
conduct  in  the  case  of  the  Misses  Malcolm 
have  been  so  broadly  condemned ;  and  last, 
though  not  least,  in  these  palpable  evidences 
of  declension,  a  man  of  Mr.  Glandville's 
standing,  polish  and  pretensions,  would  never 
have  chosen  her  daughter  for  a  wife,  if  a 
strange  disregard  to  well-bred  forms  had  not 
begun  to  prevail  in  society  to  an  alarming 
extent ! 

All  these  plain  indications  of  a  change, 
were,  to  Mrs.  Fimlico,  sources  of  deep  re- 
gret. As  a  high-bred  woman,  she  felt  her 
power  and  influence.  No  one  possessed  a 
more  minute  knowledge  of  social  forms  ni 
fashionable  life  than  herself.  And  no  one 
could  act  them  out  with  more  ease  or  grace- 


PRIDE   OR   PRINCIPLE.  7* 

ful  self-possession.  But  to  act  the  lady  from 
genuine  good-will  towards  all,  and  in  doing  ? 
so,  even  to  vary  from  prescription,  and  know 
how  to  do  so  without  compromitting  the  con- 
ventional lady,  was  a  task  too  hard  for  her. 
Any  woman  of  fine  feelings  could,  at  this  \ 
rate,  be  a  lady,  and  that  she  was  not  prepared 
to  admit.  A  lady,  in  her  eyes,  as  she  had 
often  said,  was  something  far  above  the  wo- 
man— yea,  even  above  the  Christian.  There 
were  a  few  who  considered  her  a  perfect  ex- 
ponent of  her  own  doctrines,  and  not  without 
cause,  as  the  reader  will  be  able  to  determine 
from  what  he  has  already  seen.  And  now, 
he  will,  doubtless,  be  able  to  determine  for 
himself  the  question  —  PRIDE,  OR  PRINCIPLE,  £ 

WHICH  MAKES  THE  LADY  ? 


THE     BUD. 


L 


FAMILY    PEIDI, 


BY    T.    S.    ARTHUR. 


FAMILY  PRIDE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


HERE   are  but  few 

persons  in  the  city  of 
B who  do  not  re- 
collect that  ancient 
pileof  buildings  which 
once  stood  on  the 
northern  suburb,  just 
beyond  what  was  for- 
merly called 's  Or- 
chard. Embowered 
amid  branching  sycamores  and  tall  poplars, 
the  home  of  the  pauper  presented  an  appear- 
ance both  imposing  and  attractive.  Not 
until  after  its  sad,  life-wearied  inmates  were 
removed  to  their  more  splendid  home  at 

C ,  did  I  enter  its  halls  and  chambers. 

I  cannot  soon  forget  the  emotions  that  were 
called  up,  as  I  passed  from  cell  to  cell,  and 
from  room  to  room,  in  which  was  no  sound 
but  that  of  my  own  echoing  footsteps ; — nor 
the  multitude  of  thoughts  that  crowded 
upon  my  mind.  Within  those  time-worn 
and  crumbling  walls,  how  many  a  victim 
of  unrestrained  passions,  of  the  world's 
wrong,  had  closed  up  the  history  of  a  life, 
the  details  of  which  would  thrill  the  heart 
with  the  most  painful  sympathy !  And 

(3) 


4  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

numbers  of  these  were  of  my  own  city,  and 
of  those  who  had  once  moved  in  brilliant  cir- 
cles of  wit,  of  talent,  of  fashion.  The 'impres- 
sions then  made,  the  thoughts  then  called 
into  activity,  have  never  passed  away.  While 
engaged  in  business,  one  of  my  customers 
was  an  old  man  who  had  been  for  years  em- 
ployed about  the  Aims-House.  He  was  intel- 
ligent, and  much  given  to  reminiscence.  The 
incidents  about  to  be  related  are  founded 
upon  his  narrations,  and  will  be  given  as  if 
detailed  by  him  to  the  reader.  And  if  they 
awaken  in  the  heart  any  emotions  of  human 
kindness,  the  writer  will  not  have  woven  in 
vam  the  many-coloured  threads  of  human 
life  into  a  tissue,  with  forms  and  figures, 
whose  actions  may  be  seen  and  read  of  all. 
But  I  will  step  aside,  and  give  place  to  one 
whose  narration,  I  doubt  not,  will  hold  the 
reader  in  bondage  to  intense  interest. 

I  never  was  disposed  to  indulge  in  gloomy 
reflections  on  my  own  destiny.  To  me,  every 
thing  in  external  nature  has,  all  my  life  long, 
worn  a  smiling  face.  And,  as  I  have  never 
desired  the  blessings  which  others  have  re- 
ceived at  the  hands  of  a  bountiful  Providence, 
my  state  of  mind  has  been  that  of  content- 
ment. But  no  one  can  live  in  this  world 
without  feeling  "  a  brother's  woe,"  and  many 
a  heart-ache  have  I  had,  and  many  a  tear  have 
I  dropped,  over  the  misery  of  others.  Mv 


FAMILY   FRIDE.  O 

station  at  the  Aims-House  made  me  familiar 
with  wretchedness  in  a  thousand  distressing 
forms  ;  but  did  not  touch  my  feelings  with 
the  icy  finger  of  indifference.  Motherless 
babes  were  there,  and  old  men  tottering  upon 
the  brink  of  the  grave.  And  both  were 
wretched.  The  first,  just  entering  upon  the 
world,  orphaned  by  death  or  desertion,  un- 
conscious of  their  sad  condition,  and  yet 
miserable  from  neglect.  The  others,  num-  > 
bering  the  last  grains  in  Time's  hour-glass, 
and  looking  back  in  dreary  wretchedness  >, 
over  the  rough  and  thorny  paths  of  a  mis- 
spent life.  No  fond  mother  can  tell,  when  a 
child  is  born  unto  her,  and  she  clasps  it  with 
a  thrill  of  maternal  delight  to  her  bosom, 
what  will  be  its  future  destiny.  How  often 
have  I  looked  at  the  old  men  and  women,  at 
the  middle-aged  and  the  young  children,  who  ; 
crowded  that  last  refuge  of  the  indigent  and 
distressed,  and  said  musingly  to  mvself:  "Lit- 
tle did  she  dream,  when  the  small  piping  cry 
of  her  new-born  babe  touched  her  ear,  that 
her  child  would  ever  be  in  this  company!" 
More  than  all  did  I  pity  the  babes  that  were 
brought  in.  The  Aims-House  is  no  place  for 
infants.  Hired  nurses,  with  a  dozen  or  two 
of  children  to  attend,  are  not  usually  possess- 
ed of  many  maternal  feelings;  and,  even  if 
they  were,  what  woman  can  properly  minis- 
ter to  ten  or  twenty  babes?  Little  kind  nurs- 
ing did  they  get.  Lying  upon  their  backs  for 
1  « 


FAMILY    PRIDE. 

hours,  ,  many  of  them  did  nothing  but  moan 
and  cry,  during  all  their  waking  moments. 
But  more  than  two-thirds  of  all  the  little 
ones  that  were  brought  in  speedily  found  rest 
from  their  troubles.  I  was  always  glad  when 
it  was  said — "  another  child  is  to  be  buried." 
Few  visits  did  I  make  to  their  apartments. 
I  could  not  better  their  condition,  and  I  did 
not  wish  to  witness  their  sufferings. 

Those  of  all  ages  and  sexes,  and  from  all 
conditions  in  life,  were  there.  And  in  each 
face  was  written,  in  lines  too  legible,  charac- 
ters that  told  of  hereditary  evils.  Sin  and 
misery  are  united  as  one.  They  are  joined  in 
inseparable  union.  The  sure  price  of  trans- 
gression is  pain.  But  I  will  not  weary,  by 
giving  way  to  the  tendencies  of  age — a  dis- 
position to  moralize.  The  young  reader  looks 
for  active  life. 

Standing  one  day  upon  the  small  porch 
that  led  into  the  entrance  of  the  building  on 
its  northwest  front,  I  observed  a  common 
wood-cart  driving  up  the  avenue,  and  went 
down  to  the  gate  to  open  it,  in  order  to  let 
the  vehicle  pass.  As  it  was  driven  in,  I  saw 
that  it  contained  a  female,  who  was  seated 
upon  the  bottom  of  the  cart,  leaning  against 
one  of  the  sides,  with  her  head  resting  upon 
her  bosom.  Although  her  garments  were 
worn  and  faded,  and  her  face  entirely  con- 
cealed, I  instinctively  felt  that  she  was  one 
who  had  fallen  from  some  aigh  place  in  so 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  7 

ciety.  I  never  liked  to  see  such  coming  into 
our  institution,  and  could  not  help  the  pas- 
sage of  a  shade  of  sadness  over  my  spirits. 
When  the  cart  stopped  before  the  main  en- 
trance to  the  buildings,  I  went  up  to  the  side 
of  it,  and  touching  the  woman,  who  did  not 
lift  her  head,  or  make  a  motion  to  rise,  said 
in  a  kind  way — 

"  Let  me  assist  you  to  get  down,  madam." 

"  Ha  !"  she  said,  in  a  quick  voice,  sudden- 
ly turning  her  face  toward  me.  It  was  a  pale, 
thin  face,  but  full  of  womanly  beauty.  Her 
large,  dark  eyes  seemed  to  flash,  and  the 
point  of  light  in  each  was  as  bright  as  the 
ray  of  a  diamond.  I  was  startled  for  a  mo- 
ment by  such  an  apparition.  But  recovering 
myself,  I  said  again, — 

"  Let  me  assist  you  to  get  down,  madam  ; 
you  are  at  the  end  of  your  journey." 

"Ha!  ha!"  she  laughed,  with  an  expres- 
sion on  her  countenance  of  bitter  irony.  "  I 
should  think  I  was.  Rut  what  is  this?"  look- 
ing up  at  the  time-worn  structure  in  the 
shadow  of  which  we  all  were, — "  where  am 
I?" 

"  This  is  the  Aims-House,  ma'am,"  I  re- 
plied. 

"  The  Aims-House !"  she  said,  clasping 
her  hands  together  and  looking  up,  with  a 
face  convulsed  and  still  paler, — "  Merciful 
Father,  has  it  come  to  this?" 

Then,  covering  her  eves  with  her  hands, 


8  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

and  bowing  her  head  again  upon  her  bosom, 
she  seemed  lost  to  all  consciousness  of  the 
presence  of  any  one. 

"  I'll  bring  her  out  for  you,  Mister,  in  less 
than  no  time,"  said  the  carter,  a  stout  Irish- 
man, at  the  same  time  making  a  motion  to 
seize  hold  of  her  feet,  and  drag  her  down  to 
the  bottom  of  the  cart.  This  I  of  course  pre- 
vented. Taking  the  commitment  from  him,  I 
pretended  to  examine  it  very  minutely,  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  the  poo*-  creature  time 
to  recover  herself.  After  v  minutes,  I 

said  to  her  in  a  mild,  soot'  •>  k 

"  You  will  have  to  ge.  .  ;^%re,  •  'am. 
Let  me  assist  you.  YO-J  .  <  e  ^mdly 
treated." 

She  made  no  reply ;  but  rose  to  her  feet, 
and,  giving  me  her  hand,  allowed  me  to  help 
her  down.  Mechanically  she  accompanied  me 
into  the  house,  and,  after  her  name  was  re- 
gistered, she  was  given  over,  without  having 
uttered  a  word  more  than  the  necessary  re- 
plies, to  the  matron.  . 

"  Who  is  this  woman  ?  Do  you  know  ?"  I 
said  to  the  carter,  as  I  paid  him  his  fees. 

"  Faith,  then,  and  I  don't  know  nothing 
about  her.  Only  I  heard  somebody  say,  as  I 
drove  up  the  street — '  If  there  ain't  Genera! 
T 's  poor  daughter  Emily,  in  that  cart!'  " 

"  It  can't  be  hsr,  surely!1"  said  I,  "  for  she 
gave  her  name  as  Mrs.  Watson." 

"  That  don't  matter  at  all,  sir,"  said  the 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  9 

Irishman.    «  Names  are  plenty  in  this  coun- 
try." 

"Who  sent  her  here?  Where  did  you 
take  her  from  ?'  I  asked. 

"  As  to  who  sent  her,  that  is  more  than  I 
can  tell.  Them  that  did  it  seemed  anxious  \ 
enough  to  have  her  taken  away  from  off  the 
steps  of  a  big  house  in  York  street,  where 
she  had  seated  herself,  and  wouldn't  be  per- 
suaded to  move.  I  had  to  take  her  up  in  my 
arms,  and  p>  r  into  the  cart  by  main 
strength.'' 

"  Gen-  •  ,  —  lives  in  York  street,  does 

he  not?' 

"  Yes,  '  i«ve  IK  does.  And  now  I  mind 
me,  it  v.ds  v  i  his  very  door-step  she  was 
seated." 

"  Then,  I  suppose,  she  is  no  other  than  his 
unhappy  daughter." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  responded  the  carter,  in- 
differently; and,  cracking  his  whip,  he  dashed 
away,  leaving  me  to  my  own  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  the  course  of  a  day  or  two,  I  learned 
from  the  matron  that  Mrs.  Watson  was  no 
other  than  the  accomplished  and  once  bril- 
liant Miss  T ^,  who  had  been,  some  ten 

years  before,  the  bright  particular  star  of  the 
fashionable  hemisphere  in  our  city. 


10  FAMII-Y    PRIDE. 


Among  the  many  suitors  who  flitted  about 
\         her,  was  the  son  of  a  rich  merchant  named 
/          Darwin.    This  young  man  had  received  his 
education  in  one  of  the  first  institutions  in  the 
I          country — was  accomplished  and  highly  intel- 
\         ligent.    He  soon  won  upon  a  heart  not  easi.y 
}         affected — a  heart  that  had  withstood  already 
many  well-directed  assaults.  Between  Gene- 
ral T and  the  father  of  Darwin,  had  long 

existed  the  warmest  feelings  of  friendship, 
and  both  were  interested  in  seeing  their  chil- 
dren united  by  marriage. 

Nearly  a  year  had  passed  sVnce  Darwin 
became  pointed  and  particular  in  his  atten- 
tions to  Emily,  but  he  could  not  determine 
to  propose  for  her  hand.  He  found  no  objec- 
tion to  her  existing  in  his  mind,  and  yet  there 
was  a  something  that  held  him  back.  Others 
had  yielded  up  the  field  to  him ;  and,  urged 
by  a  principle  of  honour,  he  felt  the  reluc- 
tant and  opposing  spirit  growing  stronger 
and  stronger  within  him.  The  quick  instinc- 
tive perceptions  of  one  like  the  daughter  of 

General  T ,  were  not  long  in  detecting 

the  aberration  of  her  lover's  affection,  and  all 
•of  her  woman's  pride  was  roused  into  indig- 
nation. After  taking  counsel  of  her  own 
thoughts,  and  debating  the  question  for  some 
days,  she  determined  to  satisfy  herself  of  his 
lukewarmness,  and  then  to  throw  him  off  in- 
dignantly. On  the  evening  after  this  resolu- 
tion had  become  fixed,  Darwin  can?e  to  see 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  11 

her  as  usual.     She  seemed  to  him  greatly 
changed ;  to  be  colder  and  more  reserved. 

"  You  appear  thoughtful  to-night,  Emily ,;> 
5          he  said.  "  You  are  not  wont  to  be  serious." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  must  own  to  being  in  ra- 
ther a  sober  mood  to-night,"  she  replied,  fix-         ^ 
ing  her  bright  black  eyes  upon  his  face,  with 
an  earnestness  that  showed  her  determina- 
tion to  read  his  very  thoughts,  if  possible. 

Darwin  did  not  understand,  and  felt 
strangely  uneasy  under  their  searching  ex- 
pression. 

"  May  I  presume  to  ask  the  cause  why 

Emily  T is  in  so  unusual  a  mood?"  he 

said,  with  forced  playfulness. 

"  Are  you  conscious  of  possessing  the  right 
to  ask  me  such  a  question,  Edward  Dar- 
win ?"  she  said,  again  looking  him  so  search- 
ingly  in  the  face,  that  his  eyes  fell  beneath 
her  gaze. 

"  I  claim  not  the  right  to  know  your 
thoughts,  Emily,"  he  replied,  seriously.  "  I 
asked  you  lightly." 

"  And  you  never  will  have  the  right,  sir !" 
she  said,  with  a  sudden,  passionate  energy, 
her  eyes  flashing  as  she  spoke.  "  You  have 
been  trifling  with  me  too  long,  Edward  Dar- 
win. But  that  is  past.  Now  we  will  under- 
stand each  other.  Do  not  interrupt  me,"  she 
continued,  seeing  that  he  was  about  to  speak; 
"  /must  be  heard  first.  Did  you  think  that 
I  could  not  detect  the  insincerity  of  your  at- 


12  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

tentions  ?  You  mistook,  sir,  the  woman  with 
whom  you  were  trifling,  day  after  day,  week 
after  week,  and  month  after  month.  From 
tnis  hour  I  reject  your  false  attentions.  From 
this  hour  we  meet,  if  we  meet  at  all,  as 
strangers.  I  will  neither  forgive  nor  forget 
the  insult  you  have  offered  me,  nor  the  vio- 
lence you  have  done  to  my  feelings ;"  and 
rising  to  her  feet,  she  made  a  movement  to 
retire. 

"We  part  not  thus!"  he  said,  rising  also. 
"  Your  hasty  resolution,  Emily,  has  cut  me 
off  from  the  power  of  showing  the  sincerity 
of  my  regard.  You  have  rejected  me,  in  an- 
ticipation. It  is  well !  And  I  submit,  without 
a  murmur  or  a  word  of  reproach.  But  I  will 
say  that  my  regard  for  you  has  been  sincere. 
my  esteem  unbounded." 

"Your  regard!  Your  esteem!"  she  said, 
quickly  interrupting  him,  while  her  lip  curled 
in  indignant  scorn. 

"  Yes,  and  my  lo — "  but  he  could  not  ut- 
ter the  word.  She  knew  what  he  would  have 
said,  and  understood  the  cause  of  his  hesita- 
tion. Turning  instantly  away,  she  glided 
from  the  room,  and  he  was  left  alone  with 
his  own  perplexed  thoughts  and  agitated 
feelings.  For  a  moment  he  stood  irresolute; 
then  ringing  the  bell,  he  directed  the  servant 
who  answered  the  summons  to  request  Gene- 

ral  T to  afford  hirn  an  interview.  To 

him  he  detailed,  in  a  few  words,  the  scene 


FAMILY   PRIDE.  13 

|        that  had  just  occurred;  and  then,  without 
j         waiting  for  a  reply  from  the  astonished  and 
confounded  father,  left  the  house. 

Three  months  after,  Edward  Darwin  led 
to  the  altar  a  lovely  maiden,  and  claimed  her 
for  his  bride.  She  was  in  every  way  the 
opposite  of  Emily  T ,  and  her  disposi- 
tion harmonized  more  perfectly  with  that  of 
the  man  who  had  chosen  her  from  all  her 
beautiful  companions.  She  was  not  so  impos- 
ing and  brilliant  as  Emily,  nor  so  much  un- 
der the  influence  of  strong  passions.  The  one 
was  the  mountain  stream,  now  sparkling  and 
glancing  in  the  bright  sun-beams,  and  now 
dashing  over  some  barrier  with  ungovern- 
able power, — the  other  was  the  gentle  rivu- 
let, winding  through  green,  quiet  meadows, 
or  gliding  along,  in  light  and  shade,  far  down 
in  the  bosom  of  some  lovely  valley. 

Early  upon  the  evening  that  was  to  wit 
ness  the  happy  union  of  Edward  Darwin  and 

his  lovely  bride,  Emily  T was  seated  in 

her  own  chamber,  her  head  leaning  upon  her 
arm,  that  rested  upon  a  small  table.  An  ob- 
server would  almost  have  taken  her  form  for 
that  of  a  statue,  with  drapery  of  free  and 
perfect  arrangement.  But,  within,  all  the 
elements  of  her  mind  were  in  wild  commo- 
tion. She  had  loved  Edward  Darwin — deep- 
ly, passionately,  fondly  loved  him.  And 
when,  in  obedience  to  the  dictates  of  a  proud 
indignation,  she  had  cast  him  oft',  the  effort 


to  do  so  had  well  nigh  unseated  her  reason. 
Nor  were  all  her  struggles  to  hate  and  des- 
pise him  successful.  His  image,  that  she 
would  fain  have  blotted  out  from  her  memo- 
ry, still  held  its  place;  and  the  sound  of  his 
voice  still  echoed  through  the  inner  chambers 
of  her  heart.  Three  months  had  wrought 
wonderful  changes,  externally  as  well  as  in- 
ternally. Her  full,  blooming  beauty  had 
passed  away,  and  her  large  bright  eye  light- 
ed up  her  thin  pale  face,  that  bore  the  ex- 
pression of  concealed  but  wearing  internal 
'i(  sorrow. 

She   had   sat   thus,   motionless,  for  some 
twenty   minutes,   when   suddenly  the   door 

opened,  and  her  mother  entered.  Mrs  T 

was  a  woman  of  tall  stature,  with  a  proud         ; 
carriage,  and  an  expression  of  hauteur  and         ; 
conscious  superiority  in  her  face.  This  even- 
ing her  countenance  was  lowering,  and  she         j 
}         seemed  agitated  by  contending  emotions. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  Darwin's  to-night?"         \ 
she  asked,  in  a  quick  voice,  approaching  the         ; 
table  at  which  Emily  sat,  and  looking  her 
steadily  in  the  face. 

"  No,  mother,  I  am  not !"  was  the  prompt 
and  positive  answer. 

"  Emily !    You    have    disgraced   yourself, 
and  the  whole  family,  and  nothing  will  wipe         ; 
it  out,  but  your  presence  at  Edward  Dar- 
<         win's  wedding  to-night.     You  have  been  in- 
vited, and  you  must  go." 


go. 
lo 


FAMILY    PRIDE  15 

It  is  no  use  to  urge  me,  mother,  I  cannot 
It  would  break  my  heart  !"  and  she  al- 
lowed her  feelings  so  far  to  overcome  her,  as 
to  burst  into  tears. 

"  Shame  !  shame  on  you,  Emily  !  Have 
you  not  a  drop  of  your  mother's  blood  in 
your  veins,  nor  a  spark  of  your  mother's 
spirit  ?  Did  you  not  cast  off  Edward  Dar-  \ 
win  as  unworthy  of  your  love,  and  will  you 
let  the  world  see  that  you  have  repented  ? 
\  Where  is  your  pride  ?  where  is  your  woman's 
true  dignity?  Your  father  is  ashamed  of 
you,  and  deeply  mortified  at  your  conduct 
since  Edward  was  so  hastily  rejected." 

"  Spare  me,  mother  !  In  pity  spare  me  !" 
replied  the  daughter,  in  a  mournful  tone.  "  I 
miscalculated  my  strength  when  I  resolved  to 
cast  off  Edward  Darwin.  I  would  do  any- 
thing to  gratify  you.  But  not  that,  mother  — 
not  that  !" 

"Emily,  your  father  will  be  satisfied  with 
nothing  short  of  your  attendance  at  Mr. 
Darwin's  to-night.  He  has  ordered  the  car- 
riage to  be  at  the  door  by  seven,  and  will 
accompany  you." 

"  O,  mother  !"  said  the  distressed  maiden, 
n  a  tone  of  deep  despondency. 

"Rouse  yourself,  Emily!     Be  a  woman! 

Let  no  man  who  prizes  not  your  love,  see  that 

\         you  value  his  a  jot.     He  is  unworthy  of  you. 

\         In  the  strength  of  pride  stand  boldly  up,  and 

see  him  wed  another.     Even  if  your  heart 


16  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

should  be  breaking,  let  your  face  wear  a 

\         smile  of  careless  mirth  !  Be  a  woman,  Emily  ! 

/          Prove  yourself  to  be  the  daughter  of  one  who 

has  cast  off  a  dozen  suitors,  nor  felt  a  pang. 

What  will   the  world   say    if  you   are   not 

\          there  ?     You  have  already  made  yourself  the         \ 

\         subject  of  remark  by  your  weakness,  and  if 

you  brave  it  all  off  then,  you  will  regain  your 

character.  Come,  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost." 

Mechanically  Emily  arose  from  the  table,         '', 
and  proceeded  to  dress  herself  for  the  wed- 
\         ding.      With   the   active   assistance   of  her 
mother,  she  was  quickly  arrayed  in  a  style 
of  costly  elegance. 

"  But  your  cheeks   are  too  pale,  Emily,"         \ 

said  Mrs.  T ,  surveying  her  with  a  look         \ 

of  pride. 

"  That  is  easily  remedied,"  replied  the 
daughter  in  a  low  voice  ;  and  soon,  under  the 
careful  application  of  rouge  and  powder,  her 
pale  cheeks  presented  a  natural  and  healthy 
bloom. 

"  That  will  do.  Now  you  look  like  your- 
self," said  her  mother.  "  One  thing  more 
The  carriage  has  driven  up,  and  it  is  full  time 
for  you  to  be  away.  Promise  me,  that  you 
will  be  yourself  to-night !" 

"  If  I  have  the  power  within  me  to  control 
my  feelings,  then,  mother,  I  will  do  as  you 
desire !"  she  replied,  firmly ,  for  she  was  be- 
ginning to  rally  herself.  Her  pride  was 
coming  to  her  aid. 


r  ' 

FAMILY    PRIDE.  17 

Struggling  against  her  feelings  with  all  the 
energy  of  a  proud  spirit,  now  fully  roused, 
from  necesity,  into  firmness,  she  met  her 
father,  below,  with  something  like  a  cheerful 
air,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  seated  in  the 
carriage.  No  words  passed  between  them  on 
the  way.  When  the  carriage  stopped,  her 
heart  fluttered  wildly  for  a  moment ;  but,  one 
brief  struggle  restored  her  self-control.  With 
a  light  step,  and  a  high  bearing,  she  entered 
the  rich  and  crowded  apartments,  and  none 
who  saw  her  face  could  detect  the  trace  of  a 
single  hidden  emotion  of  pain.  The  mask 
she  had  assumed  was  one  of  perfect  conceal- 
ment. 

The  first  shock  of  entering  the  house, 
which,  of  all  others,  she  desired  most  to  avoid, 
being  over,  her  spirits  gradually  rose,  and  she 
found  herself  fully  self-possessed.  Her  father 
watched  her  closely  and  anxiously,  and  soon 
ceased  to  fear. 

Half  an  hour  after  they  had  arrived,  it  was 
announced  that  the  nuptial  ceremony  would 
begin.  Again  her  heart  fluttered — but  in  an 
instant  all  was  calm  as  the  surface  of  a 
mountain-encircled  lake.  The  crowd  gave 
way,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  the  night  of 
their  painful  interview,  Emily  beheld  Ed- 
ward Darwin,  with  the  beautiful  creature 
leaning  upon  his  arm  who  was  soon  to  be 
pronounced  his  bride.  Again  a  thrill  passed 
through  every  nerve,  and  again  everv  emo- 

2*  I 


18  .AlttlLY    PRIDE. 

tion  was  hushed    into   stillness.     She   stood 
close  by  his  side  while  the  imposing  ceremony 
was  progressing,  and  heard  him  promise  to 
be  all  in  all  to  another,  without  showing  the         '• 
existence   of  a  single    internal    pang.     And         \ 
when  it  was  over,  no  one  congratulated  the 
blushing  bride  with  more  seeming  cordiality, 
or   appeared   on  better  terms  with  Darwin 
than  she. 

"  I  am  pleased  to   see   you  in   such   fine         \ 
spirits  to-night,"  said  Edward  to  her,  on  one 
occasion  during  the  evening,  when  they  hap- 
pened to  be  thrown  together. 

"  A  happy  time  makes  a  happy  company," 
she  replied,  smiling.  "  But  I  always  enjoy 
myself." 

"  A  cheerful  disposition  is  a  great  blessing. 
You  are  favoured  in  that  respect,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  highly  favoured.  I  endeavour  al-  I 
ways  to  be  governed  by  a  conscious  sense  of 
right,  and  then  I  have  nothing  to  check  the 
even  and  natural  flow  of  my  spirits.  The 
secret  of  happiness  is,  to  act  from  an  obedi- 
ence to  reason,  and  not  from  a  slavery  to 
passion." 

"  There  is,  no  doubt,  much  truth  in  your 

remark,  Miss  T ,  but,  how  few  of  us  can 

thus  act !     I,  for  one,  must  own  that  I  have 
not  yet  learned  that  happy  art." 

"  To  each  one  is  given,  if  he  chose  to  exer-         j 
cise  it,  an  internal  power  of  self-control  under 
« 11  circumstances,"  she  replied,  lookiixg  him         ', 

\ 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  19 

Bteadily  in  the  face.  '  No  one  who  chooses 
to  command  the  strength  that  is  a  constituent 
of  the  mind,  need  ever  be  enslaved  by  passion, 
or  held  in  bondage  to  feeling.  I  would  lose 
my  own  self-respect,  if  I  did  not  possess  en- 

(  tire  control  over  every  temporary  weakness 
of  character."  4 

Edward  Darwin  was  puzzled.  He  had 
heard,  of  her  as  having  secluded  herself  from 
society,  and  every  report  that  had  reached 
his  ears,  represented  her  as  pale  and  emaci- 
ated— the  image  of  distress.  His  heart  had 

]  ached  with  every  thought  of  her. — He  could 
not  forget,  that,  in  their  last  interview,  Emily 
had  exhibited  a  powerful  feeling  of  indigna- 
tion ;  that  she  had  declared,  that,  if  ever  they 
met,  it  should  be  as  strangers.  Now  she 
seemed,  intentionally,  to  throw  herself  in  his 

}'  way,  and  to  exhibit  a  degree  of  cheerful  self- 
possession  that  he  could  not  account  for.  He 
felt,  by  no  means,  as  easy  in  her  company,  as 
she  seemed  to  feel  in  his.  He  inclined  to  the 
opinion  that  she  playing  a  part,  for  he  knew 
her  to  be  a  woman  of  strong  mind.  It  was 
for  its  very  masculine  character  that  he  had 
been  unable  to  give  her  his  entire  affections. 
To  her  last  remark  he  was  about  to  reply, 
when  some  one  proposed  that  Miss  T 

\  should  favour  the  company  with  a  song.  She 
was  an  exquisite  performer,  and  had  a  voice 
of  surpassing  sweetness.  This  was  known, 
and  when  she  was  led  to  the  piano,  all  con- 


\  I 

20  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

•\ersation  was  hushed,  and  every  eye  turned 
toward  her. 

At  that  time,  the  passion  for  overtures, 
waltzes,  etc.  had  not  banished  from  fashionable 
I  circles  those  touching  old  ballads,  and  sweet 
airs,  that  it  is  now  considered  almost  treason 
to  introduce.  Even  the  school-girl's  first  and  ', 
second  lessons,  "  Days  of  Absence,"  and 
"  Bonny  Doon,"  were  sung  and  listened  to 
with  emotions  of  delight.  On  taking  her  seat 
at  the  piano,  Emily  T paused  but  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  touched  the  keys  in  a  prelude 
to  the  air  "  Their's  na  leuk  about  the  house." 
<  Almost  breathlessly  did  every  one  present 
|  listen  to  the  rich,  warbling  melody  of  her 

voice,  as  she  sung  with  unsurpassed  skill  and         ^ 
feeling  the  simple  words  of  the  song.     Never         j; 

before  had  Gen.  T felt  so  proud  of  his 

daughter. 

"  Now  give  us  *  Bonny  Doon,' "  said  a  lady, 
standing  near  her,  as  the  lingering  sweetness 
of  her  voice  died  on  the  ear,  in  closing  the 
last  line  of  the  song. 

Without  hesitating  a  moment,  Emily  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  the  music  book,  and  then 
again  let  her  fingers  fall  gently  upon  the  keys         < 
of    the    instrument,    before    which   she    was 
seated.     The    first    verse   of  the    song   wns 
given  with  great  tenderness  of  style.     The         j 
tones  of  her  voice  were  sweet  and  low,  and 
trembled  as  from  deep  emotion.     But  when 
she  commenced  the  second  verse,  it  was  evi 


FAMILY    PRIDE. 

dent  to  all,  that  she  was  losing  the  command 
of  her  feelings.  Her  voice  rallied  with  incon- 
ceivable power  and  sweetness  upon  the 
lines — 

•'  Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  plucked  a  rose, 
Full  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree." 

But  when  she  sung, 

"  But  my  false  lover  stole  my  rose 
And  left,  alas !  the  thorn  with  me," 

[t  fell  to  a  low,  wailing  sound,  that  brought 
the  tears  into  every  eye,  and  made  every 
heart  throb  with  a  sudden  and  painful  inter- 
est in  the  singer.  In  the  pause  that  followed, 
there  was  a  stillness  as  profound  as  if  every 
human  form  had  on  the  instant  changed  into 
a  marble  statue.  This  silence  was  broken 
by  the  exclamation — 

"  Merciful  Heaven !"  from  a  lady  who 
stood  near.  In  the  next  moment,  Emily  fell 
insensible  into  the  arms  of  her  father,  who 
had  sprung  forward  at  the  instant  he  per- 
ceived her  condition. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Without  waiting  for  medical  attendance, 
or  even  for  the  usual  temporary  efforts  to  re- 
store fainting  persons,  General  T had  his 

daughter  removed  at  once  to  his   carriage, 
and  taken  home. — She  showed  no  signs  of  re 


r 


22  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

turning  consciousness  for  several  hours  after- 
ward. When  the  vital  energies  of  her  body 
again  revived,  it  was  many  days  before  her 
mind  was  restored  to  any  degree  of  activity ; 
and,  even  then,  it  was  painfully  apparent, 
that  it  was  with  enfeebled  powers. 

For  months  General  T and  his  wife 

made  use  of  every  means  they  possessed  to 
dispel  from  her  mind  the  gloom  that  pervaded 
it,  and  to  rouse  within  her  an  activity  that 
snould  restore  the  lost  vigour  of  her  intellect. 
To  effect  this,  without  exhibiting  her  sad 
condition  in  the  circles  where  she  had  once 
been  the  centre,  they  removed  temporarily  to 
Washington  City  during  the  winter.  Here 
she  was  dragged  into  company,  and  stimu- 
lated with  fashionable  excitement.  This, 
with  time,  gradually  changed  her  settled  in- 
difference to  almost  everything.  She  began 
to  be  something  like  her  former  self  while  in 
company,  and  to  find,  in  dissipation,  false 
fires  to  animate  her.  But  it  could  not  be  con- 
cealed from  her  parents,  that  the  bright  star 
of  her  once  brilliant  mind  no  longer  burned 
with  a  steady  light.  At  times,  clouds  would 
come  over  and  obscure  its  lustre.  There  was 
in  her  eye  a  constant  unnatural  wildness,  and 
in  her  temper  an  unsteadiness,  that  could  not 
be  relied  upon.  A  year  or  two,  made  no 
very  great  change  in  her.  She  still  continued 
the  victim  of  nervous  excitement  or  depres- 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  23 

Gradually  her  disappointed  parents  lost  all 
interest  in,  or  care  for  her.  The  obstinate 
disposition  which  she  would  at  times  exhibit, 
estranged  them  more  and  more,  and  when, 
finally,  she  married  a  poor  man  into  whose 
company  she  had  been  thrown,  while  indulg- 
ing an  erratic  propensity  to  visit  at  the 
houses  of  several  neighbours  of  whom  she 
knew  nothing,  they  threw  her  off  as  an  en- 
cumbrance. The  man,  whose  greatest  fault 
was  idleness,  had  hoped  to  obtain  money 
enough  by  her  to  enable  him  to  live  without 
labour,  and  with  this  hope  he  had  persuaded 
her  to  marry  him  clandestinely.  He  was,  by 
trade,  a  carpenter.  With  manners  somewhat 
polished  and  a  soft  and  winning  address,  he 
had  succeeded  in  influencing  the  weak-minded 
girl  to  accept  him.  His  name  was  Watson. 
The  change  from  a  rich  and  spacious  man- 
sion, to  a  very  small  house,  poorly  furnished, 
added  to  a  peremptory  refusal  of  her  parents 
to  see  her  or  to  communicate  with  her, 
startled  her  to  a  sudden  and  distressing  sense 
of  the  rashness  of  an  act  which  could  not  be 
recalled.  Nor  was  her  husband  at  all  dis- 
posed to  believe,  that,  in  gaining  a  wife,  he 
had  added  very  greatly  to  his  stock  of  hap- 
piness, when  he  found  that  no  money  was  to 
come  with  her,  and  that  she  possessed  none 
of  the  qualities  requisite  for  a  poor  man's 
companion.  Let  us  look  in  upon  them  three 
weeks  after  their  marriage. 


24  FAMILY   PRIDE. 

The  house  they  occupy,  is  a  small  two 
story  house,  without  a  passage.  The  parlour 
in  front,  has  a  neat,  plain  carpet  on  the  floor, 
and  contains,  in  the  way  of  furniture,  six 
\vindsor  chairs,  a  table,  a  looking  glass,  and 
a  pair  of  small  andirons,  enclosed  on  the 
hearth  by  a  green  wire  fender.  The  back 
parlour  is  used  as  a  sitting  and  eating  room, 
and  here  we  will  find  the  un-happy  couple; 
the  tea  things  having  been  carried  down  into 
the  basement  kitchen,  by  a  black  girl,  the  ser- 
vant, and  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  stands  a 
pine  table,  stained  red.  An  old  ingrain  car- 
pet covers  the  floor,  and  upon  the  mantel- 
piece are  two  high  plated  candle-sticks,  in  one 
of  which  burns  a  candle.  A  half  dozen  com- 
mon chairs  make  up  the  completement  of 
furniture. 

Watson  sits  moodily  by  the  table,  upon 
which  he  rests  his  elbow  and  reclines  his 
head  upon  his  hands,  His  young  wife,  nearly 
in  the  same  position,  occupies  a  chair  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table.  The  eyes  of  both 
are  averted  from  each  other.  The  appearance 
of  Mrs.  Watson  shows  that  she  has  been 
weeping,  and  the  distressed  expression  of  her 
face,  indicates,  that  the  cause  of  her  tears  is 
still  active  within.  A  deep-drawn  sigh,  and 
a  sob  that  seems  to  force  itself  up  from  her 
heart,  in  spite  of  strong  efforts  to  keep  it 
down,  causes  her  husband  to  make  an  uneasy 
and  irritable  movement.  In  a  minute  or  so 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  25 

they  are  repeated,  and  Watson  can  no  longer 
refrain  from  speaking. 

"I  declare,  Emily,  I  am  out  of  all  kind  of 
patience  with  you  !  You've  done  nothing 
out  sob  and  cry  for  a  week.  No  mortal  man 
can  endure  it  !" 

Hitherto,  he  had  steadily  endeavoured  to 
soothe  her  distress,  but  the  small  share  of 
patience  which  he  possessed  had  become  as 
he  truly  said  from  large  draughts,  entirely  ex- 
hausted. His  words  roused  up  the  stricken 
spirit  of  his  wife,  and  something  of  fyer  former 
fires  were  kindled  within.  —  Lifting  her  head, 
she  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face,  while  her 
dark  bright  eye  assumed  an  expression  of 
wild  defiance. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  such  language 
to  me?"  she  said,  indignantly.  "Is  this  the 
pleasant  home  I  was  promised  ?"  glancing 
her  eye  around  the  small  apartment,  and 
upon  the  poor  and  meagre  furniture,  while 
her  lip  curled  with  a  scornful  expression. 
"  You  have  deceived  me  in  every  way  ;  and, 
now  that  I  am  cut  off  from  my  father's  house, 
and  all  its  comforts  and  elegancies,  I  am  to 


be  denied  the  poor  privilege  of  weeping  over 
my  condition  !  Let  me  tell  you  at  once,  sir, 
that  I  never  have  allowed  myself  to  be  trifled 
with,  and  never  will." 

"  Well,  never  mind,   Emily,"  he   replied 
soothingly,  for  he  was  something  of  a  quiet 
man,  and  had  no  wish  to  have  his  wife  remain 
3 


26  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

many  minutes  in  the  passionate  mood  to 
which  she  had  been  roused ;  "  I  spoke  rather 
warmly.  But  indeed  I  would  feel  much 
pleasanter,  if  I  saw  you  more  contented. 
Let  us  make  the  best  of  our  condition,  now. 
and,  I  doubt  not,  but  that  it  will  soon  be 
bettered." 

"And  how  are  you   going  to  better  it,  I         \ 
should  like  to  know  ?     What  more  can  you         | 
offer  me,  than  this  dog-hole,  and  a  prospect 
of  starving  on  ten  dollars  a  week  ?" 

"  Many  better  people  than  either  you  or  I, 
let  me  tell  you,  madam,  have  lived  in  a  house 
no  larger  than  this,  and  on  ten  dollars  a  week 
too!"  retorted  Watson,  a  good  deal  irritated 
at  her  remark  in  reference  to  the  provision  he 
had  made  for  her,  and  which,  in  his  idea, 
was  very  comfortable  and  genteel. 

The  eye  of  his  young  wife  seemed  to  flash 
and  her  face  grew  dark  from  suffocating  pas- 
sion. Her  lips  parted  in  the  effort  to  make 
some  angry  reply,  when  her  shattered  intel- 
lect yielded,  temporarily,  to  the  force  of  ex- 
citement, and  she  sunk  to  the  floor,  sobbing 
and  crying  hysterically. 

Watson's  angry  feelings  were  instantly 
changed  to  alarm,  and  lifting  the  body  of  his 
wife,  he  carried  her  up  to  their  chamber,  and, 
by  endearing  words,  and  gentle  manners  to- 
ward her,  endeavoured  to  soothe  her  agita- 
tion. After  a  long  time  she  grew  calmer, 
but  took  no  notice  of  her  husband.  In  vain 


TAMIL JT    PRIDE.  27 

did  he  speak  of  his  love,  and  of  his  willing- 
ness to  make  any  sacrifice  that  would  pro- 
mote her  happiness.  She  turned  her  face 
away  from  him,  and  neither  by  word  nor 
gesture,  indicated  that  she  even  heard  him. 

It  was  two  months  from  this  time,  before 
she  again  gave  utterance  to  a  word  in  his 
presence.  Though  her  mind  was  somewhat 
impaired,  yet  neither  her  pride  nor  her  pas- 
sions were  in  any  degree  weakened  ;  and  as 
they  were  no  longer  under  the  steady  control 
of  reason,  their  influence  over  her  was  of 
course  more  potent.  Neither  the  threats, 
nor  entreaties,  nor  neglect  of  her  husband 

i  could  move  her.  Sometimes  for  whole  days 
together  she  did  not  rise  from  her  bed,  and 
but  rarely  came  down  stairs.  But,  gradually, 
she  became  weary  of  her  own  perverseness, 
and  showed  some  little  disposition  to  recede 
from  her  state  of  moody  reserve.  This,  her 
husband  quickly  perceived,  and,  although  his 
angry  feelings  and  indignation  had  been 
roused  so  high  as  to  cause  him  seriously  to 
think  about  abandoning  her,  his  relief  at 
finding  that  there  was  a  prospect  of  change 
for  the  better  caused  him  to  make  use  of 

j  every  kind  attention  toward  her  in  his  power. 
This  had  a  good  effect,  and  she  soon  recov- 
ered, in  some  degree,  a  more  cheerful  temper; 
though  still  there  was  a  shadow  upon  her 
feelings.  Unexpected  by  her  husband,  she 
began  to  busy  herself  about  the  house,  and 

\ 


?.S  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

to  take  an  apparent  interest  in  the  manage- 
ment of  its  internal  and  economical  arrange- 
ments. He  could  not  but  exhibit  the  plea- 
sure he  felt  at  this  change,  and  this  mani- 
fested pleasure  gratified  her,  and  caused  her 
to  increase  in  her  domestic  attentions,  and  to 
study  in  many  ways  to  add  to  his  comforts. 
Thus  were  they  drawn  to  one  another,  and 
something  like  true  affection  kindled  up  in 
their  bosoms.  She  seemed  to  forget  the  con- 
dition in  life  from  which  she  had  fallen.  Her 
little  world  appeared  circumscribed  to  the  in- 
terior of  her  own  dwelling,  and  beyond  this 
she  never  appeared,  even  if  her  thoughts 
wandered  away  from  its  quiet  confines.  For 
a  few  times  her  husband  urged  her  to  go  out 
with  him,  but  he  soon  ceased  to  do  so,  lor  he 
saw  that  she  was  always  disturbed  by  such 
requests. 

The  wild  turbulence  of  her  temper  did  not 
again  break  out.  There  was  a  subdued  and 
quiet  air  about  her,  that  was  ever  sad,  unless 
when  her  husband  was  present,  and  then 
there  was  a  visible  effort  to  appear  cheerful 
and  interested  for  his  sake.  She  was  be- 
ginning to  entertain  for  him  a  tender  affection, 
and  gradually  her  feelings  became  intensely 
interested  in  him.  At  the  end  of  a  year  a 
babe  blessed  their  union.  A  new  fibre  of 
Emily's  heart  was  touched,  and  a  new  emo- 
tion given.  She  was  a  mother. 

And  now  the  couple  so  ill-assorted  at  first, 


FAMILY   PRIDE.  29 

began  to  be  happy  in  each  other.  The  even- 
going  temper  of  Emily's  mind  for  so  long  a 
time,  and  the  absence  of  all  causes  for  false 
excitement,  had  tended  in  a  good  degree  to 
strengthen  it,  and  to  give  her  distinct  percep- 
tions. She  was  beginning  to  see  what  was 
right,  and  to  choose  rationally.  Still,  she  felt 
no  inclination  to  go  out,  and  steadily  avoided 
doing  so,  although  from  so  long  a  state  of 
confinement,  *her  health  was  beginning  to 
suffer. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

NEARLY  four  years  from  the  time  Emily 
left  her  father's  house  had  passed  away,  and 
in  that  time  she  had  not  yet  suffered  herself, 
from  inclination  or  persuasion,  to  venture 
upon  the  street.  Her  babe  had  changed  to 
a  little  girl  of  three  years  old,  that  all  day 
long  played  about  her  mother,  and  with  its 
innocent  prattle  made  music  for  her  heart. 
Mr.  Watson,  from  a  mere  journeyman  car- 
penter, had  commenced  business  for  himself, 
and,  being  a  pretty  fair  draughtsman,  had 
made  several  very  profitable  building  con 
tracts.  He  still  occupied  the  same  house 
but  it  was  furnished  in  a  style  much  superior 
to  what  it  was  when  the  reader  first  glanced 
at  its  interior  arrangement. 
3* 


30  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

One  pleasant  Sunday  afternoon  in  June, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Watson  were  seated  on  a  sofa 
near  the  window,  watching  with  mutual  in- 
terest the  innocent  gambols  of  their  little 
j  girl,  and  listening  to  her  wandering  prattle. 

"  I  want  to  go  a  walking,  papa,"  said  the 
child,  pausing  suddenly  in  her  play,  and 
\  coming  up  to  where  her  father  and  mother 
\  were  sitting. 

"  Do  take  her  out  a  walking,"  said  Mrs. 
Watson.  "  Will  you,  dear,  if  I  get  her 
\  ready?" 

"  Yes,  Emily,  if  you  will  go  along,"  he 
\  said,  smiling. 

"  O,  no.  I  don't  care  about  going  out," 
Emily  responded,  with  a  slight  change  of 
manner. 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  Emily,  I  wish  you  wou!d 
only  consent  to  go  out  with  me  once;  you 
will,  after  that,  go  out  often  enough,  I  know. 
You  are  getting  paler  and  thinner,  every 
day,"  he  added,  looking  her  tenderly  in  the 
face. 

"  Do  come,  mamma !"  urged  the  child 
taking  hold  of  her  gown,  and  pulling  at  it 
•with  all  her  might. 

"  See  there,  little  Emily  wants  you  to  go," 
said  her  husband,  with  an  appealing  smile. 
"  You  can't  resist  her,  I  know." 

"  Come,  mamma,  do  come !"  continued  the 
child,  still  pulling  at  the  gown. 

For  a  minute  or  so  she  sat  almost  motion- 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  81 

ess,  endeavouring  to  decide  against  her  own 
reluctance  in  favour  of  gratifying  her  hus- 
band and  child. 

"  I  will  go  out  a  little  way  with  you,"  she 
at  length  said,  in  a  voice  slightly  changed 
rrom  its  cheerful  expression.  "  Come,  dear 
let  me  put  on  your  bonnet." 

Taking  little  Emily  by  the  hand,  she  went 
up  stairs  with  her,  while  her  husband's  heart 
trembled  with  a  feeling  that  was  a  mingling 
of  delight  and  fear.  Mrs.  Watson  soon  had 
her  little  girl  equipped,  and  then  sent  her 
down  stairs  to  tell  her  father  that  she  would 
be  ready  in  a  few  minutes.  She  was  exceed- 
;  ingly  pale  and  attenuated,  and  her  dark  eyes 
shone  with  an  almost  supernatural  bright- 
ness, yet  their  light  was  tempered  by  the 
out-beamings  of  woman's  gentle  spirit.  For 
a  moment  after  her  little  girl  had  gone  down, 
she  stood  by  the  side  of  the  bureau,  leaning 
against  it,  with  an  irresolute  air.  Then  go- 
ing slowly  to  a  closet,  she  brought  out  a 
bandbox,  and,  removing  the  lid,  lifted  from 
it  a  beautiful  bonnet,  that  had  lain  there  un- 
touched for  three  years ;  in  all  that  time  she 
had  not  once  looked  upon  it.  A  sigh  strug- 
gled up  from  her  bosom,  and  her  face  seemed 
to  grow  still  paler,  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  this 
relic  of  other  days.  After  removing  from  it 
a  bunch  or  two  of  rich  French  flowers,  the 
bonnet  had  nothing  obsolete  in  its  appear- 
ance, and  none  would  have  percived  that  it 


32  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

varied  materially  from  the  then  prevailing 
fashion. 

A  beautiful  silk  dress,  that  had  not  been 
worn  for  a  time  equal  to  that  during  which  the 
bonnet  had  lain  untouched,  was  next  taken 
from  a  drawer.  In  the  course  of  twenty  min- 
utes she  came  down  stairs,  elegantly  dressed, 
and  ready  to  walk  out.  Her  husband  surveyed 
her  with  a  look  of  pride  and  pleasure,  but 
when  he  perceived  that  she  was  paler,  and 
agitated,  and  felt  her  arm  trembling  within 
his,  he  half  repented  that  he  had  urged  her 
to  go  out. 

They  walked  slowly  up  the  street,  and,  in 
a  short  time,  Mrs.  Watson's  mind  became 
interested  and  revived  by  the  fresh  air,  and 
by  the  happy  voice  of  little  Emily,  that  fell 
upon  her  ear  incessantly.  Their  walk  was 
extended  some  short  distance,  and  then  they 
turned  toward  home. 

An  air  of  cheerfulness  was  pervading  the 
mind  of  Mrs.  Watson,  and  she  was  beginning 
to  converse  freely  upon  the  unimportant  sub- 
jects suggested  by  the  walk,  when,  as  they 
came  along  on  their  return  home,  she  started 
at  perceiving  her  father  and  mother  rapidly 
approaching  them  in  an  open  carriage.  In  a 
moment  more  they  were  whirled  past, — not, 
however,  without  the  eyes  of  both  parents 
and  child  meeting.  But  no  expression  of 
pleasure  or  of  recognition,  was  in  the  face  of 
either  parent.  The  look  they  gave  their  child 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  33 

was  cold  and  stern.  Dark,  and  sad,  and  all- 
pervading,  was  the  shadow  that  fell  upon  her 
spirit.  In  an  instant  was  the  light  extinguish- 
ed that  had  shed  over  her  mind  a  cheerful 
ray.  Her  husband  noted  the  change,  and 
knew  too  well  the  cause;  and  his  heart 
trembled  as  much  as  the  arm  that  rested 
heavily  upon  his  own.  In  vain  he  attempted 
to  rally  her  from  the  instantaneous  shock 
and  depression.  Sadder  and  sadder  grew  the 
shadow  that  rested  on  her  pale  face,  after 
their  return,  and  her  eyes  seemed  looking  in- 
ward, as  if  uniting  with  the  spiritual  vision 
in  contemplating  the  gloomy  spectres  that 
were  passing  before  her  mind.  In  this  state 
of  abstraction  she  remained  for  several  days. 
From  it  she  was  suddenly  aroused,  one  after- 
noon, by  the  servant  entering  her  chamber, 
where  she  was  lying  on  the  bed  lost  in  sad 
musings,  and  putting  the  question  with  a 
concerned  manner — 

"  Is  little  Emily  up  here?" 

"  No,  she  is  not.  Is  n't  she  down  stairs?" 
responded  Mrs.  Watson,  rising  up  with  an 
alarmed  expression  in  her  countenance. 

"  No,  ma'am,  she  is  not.  I  thought  she 
was  up  here." 

"  Mercy  on  me  !  Where  can  she  be,  then  ?" 
ejaculated  the  mother,  with  a  look  of  terror, 
all  her  maternal  fears  at  once  aroused. 

"  She  must  have  gone  out  of  the  front  door. 
She  was  playing  in  the  parlour  while  I  was 


34  FAMILY   PRIDE. 

at  work  in  the  yard,  and  the  door  was  open 
1  will  run  out  in  the  street  and  see  if  she  is 
there,"  said  the  servant,  hurriedly. 

"  Run,  run  quick,  then  !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
<         Watson,  her  face  almost  as  white  as  snow. 

The  black  girl  ran  up  and  down  the  street, 
and  into  the  houses  of  the  different  neigh- 
bours, but  she  returned  in  about  ten  minutes 
with  no  tidings,  during  which  time  the  poor, 
almost  distracted,  mother  was  in  an  agony 
of  suspense.  Her  fears,  easily  excited  owing 
:  to  the  nervous  state  in  which  she  was,  were 
now  overpowering. 

"  O  ma'am,  where  can  she  be  ?  Nobody 
haint  seen  nothing  of  her,"  said  the  girl, 
coming  in  with  breathless  alarm. 

"  Go  quickly  for  Mr.  Watson  !     O,   run 
quick!"  and  the  sentence  was  scarcely  half 
uttered  before  the  coloured  girl  was  hurrying 
off  at  full  speed  for  Mr.  Watson.     It  seemed 
'<         an  age  to  the  distracted  mother  before  her 
husband  arrived.  He  at  once  commenced  by 
searching  the  house,  cellar  and   yard,  tho- 
roughly, all  over.     This  convinced  him  that 
\         the  child  had  wandered  away  from  the  front 
door. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Emily,"  he  said, 
with  an  encouraging  look  that  but  ill  con- 
j  cealed  the  trembling  anxiety  that  was  at  his 
I  heart.  "  She  has  only  wandered  off  up  or 
j;  down  the  street,  and  has,  of  course,  been 
\  picked  up  by  some  one,  and  will  be  kept 

L  _  , I 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  35 

safely  for  us  until  we  can  find  where  she  is. 
No  harm  can  certainly  happen  to  her." 

But  such  a  representation  brought  no  com- 
fort to  the  terror-stricken  mother.  There 
was  an  awful  sensation  of  fear  about  her 
heart :  a  brooding  conviction  that  she  should 
never  again  behold  the  face  of  her  dear  child. 
Finding  all  efforts  to  soothe  her  feelings  vain, 
the  father  hurried  away  in  search  of  his  dear 
lost  one,  now  rendered  doubly  dear.  He 
went  from  house  to  house  for  more  than  a 
square  on  each  side  of  the  street,  above  and 
below  his  dwelling — enlisted  as  many  neigh- 
bours in  the  search  as  possible,  which  was 
extended  in  a  much  larger  circle — and,  final- 
ly, employed  a  bell-man ;  and  yet  to  no  pur- 
pose. Night  came  rapidly  on,  and,  with  its 
sombre  shades,  brought  double  gloom  and 
terror  to  the  hearts  of  the  distracted  parents. 
Even  until  twelve  o'clock  were  bell-men  em- 
ployed to  sound  the  alarm  in  all  parts  of  the 
city ;  but  it  was  sounded  in  vain.  Advertise- 
ments were  handed  in  to  the  newspaper 
offices  at  that  late  hour,  offering  a  liberal  re- 
ward to  any  person  who  would  restore  the 
little  innocent. 

"  Have  you  found  her?"  was  the  eager 
question,  asked  in  a  tone  of  agonizing  sus- 
pense of  the  husband,  as  he  entered  pale  and 
agitated  at  the  hour  of  midnight.  He  shook 
his  head  mournfully.  His  poor  wife  could 
endure  this  terrible  state  no  longer;  with  a 


*36  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

groan  of  despair,  she  sunk  insensible  into  his 
arms. 

All  the  night  through  she  remained  in  a 
state  of  unconsciousness.  From  this  she  be- 
gan slowly  to  revive,  as  the  dim  light  of 
the  morning  came  into  the  chamber,  its  cold 
rays  struggling  with  the  flickering  taper. 
She  was  soon  restored  to  full  consciousness, 
and  then  came  back  upon  her,  with  over- 
whelming agony,  the  idea  that  her  little  an- 
gel was  lost  to  her,  perhaps  for  ever.  There 
stood  the  empty,  untumbled  crib;  and  in  it 
lay  the  mimic  babe,  that  ever  rested  within 
her  arms  at  night,  her  untutored  mind  in- 
vesting with  life  the  unconscious  effigy.  For 
the  first  time,  the  mother's  feelings  softened, 
and  the  fountain  of  her  tears  was  unsealed. 
For  a  long,  long  time  she  wept  upon  the  bo- 
som of  her  husband.  But  again  the  waters 
were  sealed,  and  a  stern  and  terrible  sense 
of  her  loss  fell  upon  her. 

"  I  shall  never  see  her  again,  husband !  I 
know  I  shall  never  see  my  sweet  ang^l 
again !"  she  said,  looking  him  in  the  face 
with  a  strange  and  fearful  calmness.  "  She 
is  dead — dead"  she  added,  shaking  her  head 
mournfully — "  dead — dead — and  I  shall  ne- 
ver see  my  sweet  babe  again." 

"  Do  not  give  way  to  such  thoughts,  Emi- 
ly," urged  her  husband.  "  We  must  find  her. 
Our  advertisement  in  the  papers  will  surely 
bring  tidings  of  her." 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  37 

"  No — no — no,"  murmured  his  wife  sadly. 
"  We  shall  never  see  her  again.  Do  you 
know,"  she  said  quickly,  and  with  startling 
emphasis  "  what  I  have  just  thought  has  be- 
come of  her  ?" 

"  No,  Emily.  Where  do  you  think  she  is?" 

"  Somebody  has  stolen  her!"  she  said,  in  a 
low  thrilling  whisper,  leaning  over  toward 
her  husband,  and  looking  him  in  the  face 
with  a  countenance  as  white  as  marble. 

"  H-u-s-h !"  ejaculated  the  husband,  half 
averting  his  face,  while  his  heart  seemed  al- 
most to  die  in  his  bosom  at  the  terrible  idea. 

"  It  is  true.  I  am  sure  it  is,"  continued  the 
wife,  in  the  same  ominous  whisper.  "  Have 
you  never  heard  of  babes  like  her  being  stolen 
away?  I  have,  many  a  time.  And  somebody 
has  got  her !  I  know  they  have — I  know  they 
have,"  and  she  began  to  rock  her  body  back- 
ward and  forward,  moaning  and  muttering 
to  herself  incoherently. 


38  FAMILY    PRTDJS 


CHAPTER  V. 

POOR  Watson  was  dreadfully  shocked  at 
the  idea  so  suddenly  suggested  by  his  wife, 
and  also  greatly  distressed  at  the  evident  im- 
becility that  was  again  stealing  upon  her 
mind.  Through  the  whole  of  that  day  he 
looked  in  vain  for  some  tidings  of  his  child. 
But  no  word  of  her  reached  his  anxious  ears. 
And  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week 
passed,  and  yet  nothing  was  heard  of  her. 

From  the  morning  on  which  his  wife  had 
started  the  idea  that  she  had  been  stolen 
away,  she  evinced  no  anxiety,  no  hope.  She 
soon  fell  into  a  state  of  musing  melancholy, 
and  evinced  no  interest  in  anything,  not  even 
in  her  husband.  In  this  condition  she  con- 
tinued for  many  months. — Gradually,  how- 
ever, she  began  to  recover  from  this  gloomy 
state,  and  to  show  some  little  care  for  her 
husband.  But  even  in  him,  she  became  little 
interested.  Two  years  passed  away  from  the 
time  the  child  had  disappeared,  and  tho 
mother  was  still  moping,  gloomy,  and  unin- 
terested. From  this  state  she  was  aroused 
by  the  sudden  and  alarming  illness  of  her 
husband.  Ten  days  were  enough  to  work 
destruction  on  his  frame;  at  the  end  of  that 
period  he  passed  into  the  world  of  spirits. 

Every  perception  of  her  mind  was  now 
acutely  sensitive.  The  tenderness  and  affec- 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  39 

tion  that  had  slumbered  for  two  years  were 
all  awakened ;  but  alas !  were  active  now, 
only  to  bring  intense  and  abiding  grief.  The 
body  of  her  husband  was  soon  buried  out  of 
her  sight,  and  she  was  left,  in  every  sense  of 
the  word,  alone.  During  the  six  years  of  her 
marriage  she  had  not  padd  a  single  visit,  nor 
made  a  single  acquaintance.  And  now, 
besides  the  family  servant,  there  was  not  a 
familiar  face  for  her,  nor  a  familiar  voice. 
The  image  of  her  lost  child  had  never  once 
faded  from  her  mind,  during  all  the  months 
of  her  gloomy  abstraction,  and  now  its  sweet 
face  came  up  before  her  more  vividly  than 
ever,  and  her  bosom  yearned  toward  it  with 
a  more  fond  and  maternal  desire. 

The  new  impulse  which  the  character  of 
her  husband  had  received,  had  made  him 
more  earnestly  bent  upon  accumulating  pro- 
perty. His  sudden  death  occurred  just  as 
his  prospects  were  rapidly  opening.  During 
six  years  he  had  saved  something  like  two 
thousand  dollars,  and  this  was  paid  over  into 
the  hands  of  his  widow  by  the  executor.  In 
a  condition  of  aimless  and  gloomy  isolation, 
never  once  venturing  beyond  the  threshold  of 
her  dwelling,  did  Mrs.  Watson  live  for  tb°. 
next  four  years,  when  she  found  the  means 
which  had  thus  far  supported  her,  just  upon 
the  eve  of  exhaustion.  This  aroused  her 
from  a  state  of  lethargy  into  one  of  anxious 
solicitude.  What  could  she  do?  No  single 


;  40  FAMILY    PKIDE. 

available  resource  did  she  possess  within  her- 

\         self,  and  almost  her  last   dollar  was  spent. 

Finally,  all   her  money  was  exhausted,  and 

the  stern  necessity  of  her  condition  drove  her 

'         into  action.     By  the  aid  of  her  black  hired 

servant,  who  had  become  attached  to  her,  she 

procured  the  services  of  an  auctioneer,  who 

sold  for  her  every  piece  of  furniture  that  she 

could  possibly  spare.     The  proceeds  of  this 

sale  was  two  hundred  dollars.    With  her  few 

\         remaining  articles  of  furniture,  she  removed 

\         into  one  room,  which  she  had  rented  in  a 

\         house  where  her  servant  could  have  the  use 

of  the  kitchen  and  garret. 

It  was  about  six  months  from  this  time 
that  she  found  herself  reduced  to  extremity 
again,  and  with  no  further  resource.  Abso- 
\  lute  starvation  stared  her  in  the  face.  A 
willingness  to  do  something  for  a  living  arose 
in  her  mind,  but  she  could  think  of  nothing. 
In  this  state  of  acute  distress  of  mind,  after 
a  long  debate,  she  finally  resolved  to  seek, 
humbly,  in  brokenness  of  spirit,  a  reconcilia- 
tion with  her  parents,  and  to  beg  a  home 
where  she  might  find  rest  and  protection  for 
the  few  brief  years  that  she  felt  were  to 
bring  the  hour  of  her  release  from  temporal 
evil.  Once  resolved,  she  lost  no  time  in 
putting  her  resolution  into  effect. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
when  she  stood,  for  the  first  time  in  ten  years, 
upon  the  door-stone  of  her  father's  house — • 
that  house  from  which  she  had  been  banished 


FAMILY    1'RIDE. 


41 


The  pulsations  of  her  heart  were  quick  and 
fluttering  \vhile  she  waited  almost  breath- 
lessly an  answer  to  the  summons  she  had 
given.  In  a  few  moments  the  door  was 
opened  by  a  well-known  servant,  one  who 
had  grown  old  in  the  family. 

"  Miss  Emily  !"  she  exclaimed,  starting  and 
lifting  her  hands  in  astonishment,  as  the  at- 
tenuated  and  trembling  form  of  her  young 
mistress  stood  before  her. 

Then  turning  suddenly,  she  ran  up  stairs, 
>and  bursting  into  the  chamber  where  the 
mother  of  Emily  was  sitting,  exclaimed,  hur- 
riedly— 

"  O,  mistress,  Miss  Emily  is  down  stairs ! 
I  don't  know  what  she  wants,  but  she  looks 
as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  trembles  all  over." 

"  Tell  her  to  go  out  of  the  house !"  said 

Mrs.   T ,  rising   up  instantly,  her  face 

flushed  with  anger,  and  sudden  alarm.  Tell 
her  to  go  away  at  once !  She  can't  come 
here !" 

"  O  mistress  !"  said  the  old  servant  in  an 
appealing  voice. 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  Nell  ?"  she  answered  in 
an  excited  tone,  stamping  her  foot  upon  the 
floor. — "  Obey  me  this  instant !" 

The  servant  descended  the  stairs,  into  the 
hall  where  Mrs.  Watson  was  standing  with 
an  aching  heart. 

"  Your  mother  will  not  see  you,  Miss  Em- 
ily," she  said  to  her  in  a  mournful  tone. 
4* 


™- 


42  FAMILY   PRIDE. 

"  But  I  must  see  her,  Nelly  !  Tell  her  i 
must  see  her." 

"Indeed,  indeed,  Miss  Emily,  it's  no  use; 
mistress  won't  see  you.  She  is  very  angry." 

"  Is  father  home  ?"  now  asked  Mrs.  Watson. 

•'  No,  he  has  been  out  an  hour." 

"  Then  I'll  wait  here  until  he  comes,"  she 
said,  seating  herself  in  the  hall. 

For  nearly  an  hour  did  Mrs.  Watson  sit, 
trembling  between  hope  and  fear,  and  strug- 
gling against  a  depressing  gloom,  under  which 
she  seemed  every  moment  about  to  sink. 
While  seated  there,  a  little  girl,  about  nine 
years  old,  came  dancing  and  singing  along 
the  passage.  When  she  saw  a  stranger,  she 
paused  suddenly,  and  then  with  a  child's 
curiosity,  came  slowly  up  to  her,  surveying 
her  all  the  while  with  a  look  of  curious 
interest. 

A  strange  and  sudden  thrill  passed  through 
the  heart  of  Mrs.  Watson  when  she  heard 
the  voice  of  the  little  girl,  and  as  she  ap- 
proached, her  eyes  were  riveted  upon  her 
young  and  innocent  face,  with  a  look  of  in- 
tense and  yearning  interest.  The  child 
seemed  slightly  alarmed  by  the  steady  gaze 
that  was  fixed  upon  her,  and,  slowly  retreat- 
ing, she  went  up  stairs,  turning  at  every  step 
to  catch  the  earnest  look  of  the  stranger. 
Mrs.  Watson  felt  an  impulse  to  spring  for- 
ward and  follow  the  child,  she  scarcely  knew 
why,  when  the  front  door  was  swung  open 


FAMILY    PRIDE. 


and  her  father  came  in  with  his  usual  meas- 
ured and  heavy  tread. 

"  0  my  father  /"  exclaimed  the  poor  crea- 
ture, suddenly  springing  to  her  feet,  and 
standing  before  him  \vith  clasped  hands. 

"  Away !"  he  said  angrily,  hurrying  past 
her.  "  /  have  no  child  !" 

"  Father !  father  !"  she  cried  after  him,  but 
he  passed  up  the  stairs  at  two  or  three  strides, 
and  disappeared  from  her  sight. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  strange  man-servant 
came  down,  and  told  her  she  must  leave  the 
house.  She  went  out  of  the  door  mechani- 
cally, and  seated  herself  upon  the  marble 
steps.  Here  she  had  remained  for  nearly  an 
hour,  motionless,  and  almost  in  a  state  of  un- 
consciousness, when  an  order  was  procured 
by  the  direction  of  her  father,  for  her  admis- 
sion into  the  Aims-House,  whither  she  was  re- 
moved, as  the  reader  has  seen. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  particulars  just  related,  I  learned 
subsequent  to  her  admission  into  our  institu- 
tion. They  increased  the  interest  awakened 
in  her  on  the  day  of  her  entrance,  and  led 
me,  frequently,  to  converse  with  the  matron 
as  to  her  condition  of  mind.  For  the  first 
week  or  two  she  seemed  stupefied,  and  sat, 


FAMILY    PRIDE. 

for  the  greater  part  of  the  time,  moping  and 
melancholy  in  the  apartment  allotted  to  her. 
By  the  special  direction  of  the  Board  of 
Trustees,  who  were  made  acquainted  with 

her  relationship  to  General  T ,  and  whose 

sympathies  were  awakened  by  a  knowledge 
of  her  condition,  she  was  not  required  to  per- 
form any  menial  employments,  but  left  al- 
most entirely  to  act  as  her  inclination  might 
j  dictate. 

She  had  not  uttered  a  word,  unless  in  reply 
to  a  question,  for  the  first  three  weeks  suc- 
j;  ceeding  her  admission.  She  was  sitting  one 
afternoon,  about  this  time,  as  the  sun  was 
going  down,  looking  out  of  the  window.  The 
expression  of  her  face  indicated  an  unusual 
\  excitement  of  feelings.  The  matron,  whose 
duties  called  her  into  the  room  where  Mrs. 
Watson  was  sitting,  could  not  help  observing 
that  she  was  disturbed  more  than  usual.  A 
tear  or  two  stole  out  from  either  eye,  and 
passed  down  her  pale  cheek,  while  a  heavy 
sigh  struggled  painfully  up  from  her  bosom. 
The  matron's  feelings  were  touched,  and  ap- 
proaching her,  she  said,  tenderly  : — 

"  All  affliction,  Mrs.  Watson,  is  for  our 
good.  Try,  my  dear  madam,  to  feel  this,  and 
then  you  will  extract  some  comfort,  even  from 
your  present  condition." 

Mrs.  Watson  shook  her  head  mournfully, 
but  made  no  reply. 

"  let  me  urge  you."  continued  the  matron^ 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  45 

"  as  one  who  has  known  much  sorrow,  to  look 
upward  in  your  affliction.  There  is  a  strong 
consolation  for  all  who  will  seek  it.  A  haven 
of  repose  for  all  who  choose  to  escape 
thither." 

The  tone  of  voice,  so  tender  and  maternal,          j 
or  the  words,  so  unusual  to  her  ear,  caused          \ 
the  poor  child  of  affliction  to  fix  her  eyes, 
with  an  expression  of  inquiry,  upon  the  face 
of  her  kind  admonitress.     But  still  she  re- 
plied not,  and  the  matron,  encouraged  to  pro- 
ceed, went  on. 

"  In  the  Word  of  Life,  it  is  said — 'Come 
unto  me,  all  ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.'  This  is  ad- 
dressed, particularly,  to  you,  for  you  are 
heavy  laden." 

"  O  yes — yes — I  am  heavy  laden, — pressed 
down,  never  to  rise  again,"  she  said  mourn- 
fully. 

"  Do  not  give  way  to  such  a  despairing 
thought.  While  there  is  life,  there  is  hope 
for  days  of  comfort.  And  such  days  are  for 
all." 

"Not  for  me  —  no  —  never  —  never,"  re- 
sponded Mrs.  Watson.  ''Can  I  receive  back 
my  only  treasure?  Can  there  be  for  me  day? 
of  comfort,  and  my  stolen  child  not  restored 
to  me  ?  No,  no !  never,  never  !" 

"  Of  one  thing  be  certain,  Mrs.  Watson," 
said  the  matron,  slowly  and  impressively. 
"  In  all  things  that  befall  us,  there  is  a  direc- 

1 
U~, 


46  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

tion  or  a  permission  of  Providence,  and  if  we         / 
duly  submit  to  them,  great  good  will  result         i 
]         to   us.      The    same   over-ruling   Providence 
I         that  permitted  your  child  to  be  stolen  from 
you,  as  you  say,  can  so  control  circumstan- 
ces, that  your  lost  one  will  be  restored." 

"  Say  that   again !    say   that   again !"   ex-         \ 
\         claimed  the  half-distracted  creature,  springing         ! 
to  her  feet  in  an  instant,  and  looking  the  ma-         t 
j         tronjn  the  face  with  a  wild  expression  of 
\         hope*  that  seemed  like  a  faint  and  flickering 
\         ray  glancing  up  from  the  stagnant  waters  of 
despair. 

"  Be  calm,  my  dear  madam  !"  said  the  ma-        \ 
tron,  half  alarmed. 

"  Say  it  again  !  O,  madam,  say  those  words 
j         again  !"  urged  Mrs.  Watson,  entreatingly. 
-     "  I  said,"  repeated  the  matron,  "  that  the 
same  over-ruling  Providence  that  permitted 
your  child  to  be  stolen  from  you,  can  so  con- 
trol circumstances,  that  vour  lost  one  will  be 
restored." 

"  And  the  Lord  is  said  to  be  good  and  very        j 
merciful,  is  he  not  ?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  His  tender  mercies  are  over  all  the 
children  of  men.  He  pities  us,  even  as  a 
father  pities  his  children,"  said  the  matron 
slowly  and  distinctly. 

"  And  does  he  pity  me  ?"  asked  the  almost         i 
|          broken-hearted  woman,  the  tears  running  in 
streams  down  her  face  at  the  thought  thaf 
she  was  pitied  by  One  so  able  to  help  her. 


L, 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  4T 

"  He  has  for  you,  my  dear  Mrs  Watson,  a 
yearning  tenderness.  He  loves  you  with  un- 
speakable love,  and  desires,  of  all  things,  to 
make  you  happy." 

"  And  then  he  will,  surely,  give  me  back 
my  child,  if  I  ask  him,"  she  said.  "  But  what 
if  my  dear  little  Emily  should  be  dead  ?"  she 
added,  the  eager  flush  of  hope  that  had  lighted 
up  her  countenance  giving  way  to  a  hue,  pale 
and  death-like. 

"  Then,  Mrs.  Watson,"  said  the  matron, 
"  your  child  is  an  angel  in  heaven,  and  is,  no 
doubt,  often  near  you.  She  is  happy,  unut- 
terably happy. — And  it  is  for  you  to  wait 
patiently,  in  obedience  to  all  the  precepts  of 
our  holy  religion,  until  you  are  called  to  join 
her,  to  be  no  more  separated. — But  why  thus 
distress  yourself  by  indulging  such  thoughts? 
He  that  ruleth  all  things  well,  can  out  of  this 
affliction  bring  you  a  great  comfort ;  and  he 
will  do  it,  if  you  look  up  to  him  in  patient 
faith  and  calm  obedience." 

Mrs.  Watson  bowed  her  head  upon  her 
bosom,  and  stood  some  moments,  evidently  in 
self-communion.  After  awhile  she  looked  up 
with  a  calmer  expression  upon  her  face,  but 
with  something  intensely  earnest  in  her  eyes, 
and  said — 

M  What  ought  I  to  do  ?" 

"  That  is,  Mrs.  Watson,"  replied  the  ma- 
tron, with  a  glow  of  heart-felt  satisfaction, 
"  the  most  important  question  you  could  have 


48 


FAMILY    PRIDE. 


asked,  and  I  am  glad  that  it  is  so  earnestly 
made.  In  the  first  place,  then,  you  ought  to 
make  a  strong  and  constant  effort,  to  feel  con- 
fidence in  the  Lord,  as  ruling  and  guiding  all 
things  for  the  good  of  his  creatures,  and  as 
never  sending,  or  permitting  any  affliction, 
unless  for  the  purpose  of  working  a  greater 
and  more  lasting  good.  As  soon  as  you  can 
begin  to  realize  such  a  confidence,  your  mind 
will  re-act,  in  a  great  measure,  from  its  state 
of  gloom  and  despondency." 

"I  am  willing  to  try,"  she  responded 
thoughtfully,  "for  I  clearly  perceive  that  '; 
there  is  much  truth  in  what  you  say.  But  I 
fear  that  my  mind  will  soon  go  back  into 
gloom  and  despair,  in  spite  of  all  my  feeble 
efforts  to  help  it." 

"  If  you  will  be  advised  by  me,  I  think  I        I 
can  help  you  here  also,"  said  the  matron. 

"I  will  be  advised  by  you  in  any  thing," 
replied  Mrs.  Watson,  earnestly. 

"  A  mind,  unoccupied  in  some  useful  task," 
said  the  matron,  "  will  prey  upon  itself,  and 
make   even  those  who  have  no  real  trouble 
miserable.     How  much,  then,  will  a  sorrow- 
ful mind,  unemployed,  add  to  its   own  dis- 
tress !   It  will  be  necessary  for  you  to  employ 
yourself  in  something  that  will  divert  your         I 
thoughts.    To  have  something  to  interest  you,         \ 
and  to  awaken  a  feeling  of  care  in  your  mind.          \ 
In  a  place  like  this,  I  need  not  tell  you,  that 
there  are  numerous   ways  of  passing  your         ; 
time  in  useful  employments." 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  49 

"  1  feel  the  force  of  what   you  say,"  re- 
l         sponded  Mrs.  Watson.     "  But  I  also  feel  re- 
luctant, I  must  confess,  to  tasking  myself  in 
any  way.     Still  I  will  be  governed  by  you." 
"  To-morrow,  then,  I  will  suggest  to  you 
\         some  employment  that  will  be  pleasant,  and 
\         at  the  same  time  draw  upon  your  attention. 
But    my  duties   call  me   away,  and  I  must 
leave  you.     Do  not,  let  me  entreat  of  you, 
suffer  your  mind  to  go  back  again  into  its 
state  of  inactive  gloom.    If  sad  thoughts  begin 
to  steal  over  you,  endeavour  to  look  up  to 
Him  whose  ear  is  ever  open  to  the  cry  of  the 
mourner." 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Mrs.  Watson's 
mind  had  been  roused  into  such  a  state  of 
sudden  and  healthy  activity ;  and  that  activ- 
ity continued  until  her  senses  were  locked 
that  night,  in  the  oblivion  of  sleep.  On  the 
next  morning  she  awoke  from  more  pleasant 
\  dreams  than  she  had  known  for  a  long  time. 
Early  after  the  frugal  and  coarse  breakfast 
had  been  served,  the  matron  came  to  her  with 
a  small  bundle  in  her  hand. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Watson,"  she  said,  J 
"  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  look  better  than  / 
you  did  yesterday." 

"  I  think  I  feel  a  little  better  too,"  she  re-          ! 
plied,  while  a  faint  smile  flitted  across  her          j 
<         pale  face. 

"  I  am  sure  you  do,  for  your  countenance 
;         expresses  a  much  calmer  state  than  you  have 


50  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

experienced  since  you  came  here.  I  have 
brought  you  a  garment  to  make.  Are  you 
willing  to  work  upon  it?" 

"  Certainly,  I  am.  If  I  would  not  be  un- 
utterably miserable,  I  must  not  be  idle." 

The  matron  smiled  upon  her  encouragingly, 
gave  her  some  plain  and  brief  directions 
about  the  work,  and  then  left  her,  to  attend 
to  other  numerous  duties.  Frequently 
through  the  day,  as  she  came  into  Mrs.  Wat- 
son's apartment,  would  she  drop  a  cheerful 
and  encouraging  word. — None  of  these  were 
lost  upon  her,  and  they  frequently  came,  just 
at  the  moment  when  her  spirits  seemed  about 
to  sink  under  the  weight  of  sad  emotions  that, 
ever  and  anon,  swept  like  waves  across  her 
mind. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GRADUALLY,  and  by  small  accretions  of 
strength,  did  Mrs.  Watson,  now  fairly  in  the 
effort  of  reformation,  aided  by  a  kind  and 
constant  monitor,  gain  a  degree  of  power 
over  herself,  that  promised  an  entire  change 
in  her  character.  Of  course,  the  re-acting 
energy  of  evil  in  her  mind,  would  often  bring 
into  temporary  subjection  the  good  princi- 
ples which  were  forming  there;  but  the  good 
only  retired  for  brief  periods.  It  rallied 
a  sain  with  renewed  activity. 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  51 

This  process  of  reformation  had  been  pro- 
gressing slowly  but  surely,  for  nearly  six 
months,  when  the  matron,  who  had  become 
much  attached  to  her,  came  into  her  room 
one  day,  and  said, — 

•'  Mrs.  Watson,  I  hare  just  learned  some- 
thing that  I  think  it  my  duty  to  communicate 
to  you.  Your  mother  died  yesterday." 

The  matron  could  not  calculate  the  effect 
of  such  a  communication  upon  a  mind  but 
half  restored  to  fortitude  and  self-control,  and 
under  circumstances  of  privation  and  morti- 
fication. She  had  hesitated  and  debated  some 
time  before  determining  to  make  the  commu- 
nication. The  shock  was  painful  in  the  ex- 
treme. The  sudden  consciousness  that  all 
hope  was  forever  cut  off  of  again  seeing  her 
mother's  face  in  reconciliation,  a  hope  she 
had  not  ceased  to  cherish  in  the  inner  cham- 
ber of  her  heart,  like  a  solitary  and  dim  taper, 
serving  only  to  reveal  the  surrounding  gloom, 
weighed  down  her  spirits, and  paralyzed  every 
energy  of  her  mind.  All  through  the  day  she 
sat  in  dreamy  abstraction,  scarcely  answer- 
ing any  question  put  to  her  by  the  matron, 
and  not  offering  to  resume  the  work  she  had 
lain  aside. 

On  the  day  preceding,  a  solemn  scene  was 
passing  in  the  house  from  which,  for  ten 
years,  Emily  had  been  banished.  But  two 
persons  were  present,  besides  a  poor  trembler 
on  the  brink  of  mortality.  One  was  the  hus- 


52  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

band.  General  T ,  and  the  other  a  slender 

and  beautiful  little  girl,  not  much  beyond  her 
ninth  summer.  The  former  sat  upon  one  side 

;         of  the  bed,  his  face  expressive  of  deep  afflic- 

I  tion.  The  latter  stood  upon  the  other  side, 
her  hand  clasped  within  that  of  the  dying 

\  woman,  while  large  drops  were  stealing 
slowly  down  her  young  cheeks.  A  profound 

\         silence  reigned   for  some   time   through   the 

<  chamber  where  death  was  about  to  enter;  at 
length  the  dying  woman  said,  in  a  feeble 
voice,  looking  at  the  child, — 

"  Go   down   stairs  a  little  while,  Agnes, 

\         dear.     We  will  send  for  you  again  in  a  few 

j         minutes." 

The  child  obeyed.  As  the  door  closed  after 

her,  Mrs.  T turned  toward  her  husband 

and  said : 

"  We  have  never  suffered  ourselves  to 
breathe  the  name  of  Emily  for  years.  But  I 
must  speak  of  her,  now  that  the  fatal  and 
ruinous  pride  of  my  heart  has  lost  its  power 
over  me.  I  wish  to  see  her !" 

"  You  cannot !"  ejaculated  General  T 

with  sudden  energy,  a  dark  passionate 
shadow  passing  over  his  brow.  "  She  is  no 
longer  our  child  !" 

"  No  reprobation  of  ours  can  change  the 
relationship  !  She  is  bone  of  our  bone,  and 
flesh  of  our  flesh  !  Years  ago  I  thought  all 
natural  affection  for  her  extinguished,  but  it 
is  swelling  up  in  my  heart  with  unutterable 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  63 

yearnings.  Oh,  husband,  let  me  see  my  child 
before  1  die!"  and  she  raised  herself  up,  and 
leaned  over  toward  mm  with  a  look  of 
pleading  agony. 

"  You  cannot !"  was  the  brief  stern  answer. 

The  face  of  the  dying  woman  became  con- 
vulsed with  the  wild  energy  of  her  maternal 
feelings,  now  rushing  with  the  force  acquired 
by  their  long  accumulation. 

"  On  my  knees  I  plead  with  you  !"  she  said, 
endeavouring  to  raise  herself  in  the  bed. 

"  No — no— no !"  he  responded,  taking  her 
in  his  arms  and  laying  her  gently  back  upon 
the  pillow.  "Why  will  you  poison  the  last 
moments  of  your  life  by  a  vain  and  weak  de- 
sire ?" 

"Oh,  my  child!  my  child!  my  child!" 
murmured  the  dying  mother,  sinking  down 
upon  the  pillow.  "  My  poor  child !  My  poor 
child !" 

In  a  few  moments  the  powerful  struggle 
that  had  convulsed  her  frame,  subsided,  and 
with  her  face  nearly  hid  in  the  pillow,  she  lay 
for  a  long  time  as  still  and  as  motionless  as  if 
the  sleep  of  death  had  passed  upon  her. 

General  T sat  by  her  side,  with  his 

thoughts  and  feelings  in  a  whirlpool  of  agi- 
tation. Suddenly  she  started,  quivered  as  if 
struck  by  an  invisible  arrow,  an-d  half  raising 
herself  up,  looked  her  husband  in  the  face 
with  a  terror-stricken  countenance. 


54  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

'  One  word  !"  she  said,  in  a  husky  whisper, 
leaning  over  toward  him. 

General  T bent  his  head  down  and 

listened. 

"  Promise  me !"  urged  the  dying  woman, 
''promise  me,  in  the  name  of  Heaven!" 

The  proud,  stern  man,  drew  himself  up 
with  forced  composure. 

"  Anything  but  that !"  he  said,  impatient- 
ly, while  his  frame  shook  with  deep  internal 
agitation. 

"  God  will  require  her  of  our  hands,  and  it 
is  now,  for  me,  too  late  to  be  merciful,  or  I 
would  hope  for  mercy.  Promise  me,  then !" 

The  eye  of  the  dying  woman,  dilated  to  its 

full  extent,  glared  wildly  upon  General  T . 

Her  lips  were  again  about  to  part. 

"  I  promise,"  said  her  husband,  in  a  low. 
hesitating  voice. 

"  It  is  enough  !"  murmured  the  dying  mo- 
ther, claspingher  hands  together, and  sinking 
back  upon  her  pillow.  In  the  next  moment 
her  spirit  had  taken  its  flight. 


1 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  55  \ 


CHAPTER  VT11. 

Mrs.  Watson  was  sitting  in  her  room  one 
morning,  about  a  week  after  she  had  heard 
of  her  mother's  death,  her  mind  much  calmer 
than  it  had  been  since  the  painful  intelligence 
had  reached  her,  when  the  matron  entered 
with  a  bundle  of  clothing  and  a  bandbox. 

"  An  order  has  been  received  for  your  re- 
moval from  this  uncomfortable  home,  Mrs. 
Watson,"  she  said.  "  Here  is  a  change  of 
clothing  and  a  bonnet,  which  some  one  has 
sent.  A  carriage  is  waiting  for  you  at  the 
gate." 

"  O  Mrs.  ,  do  not  trifle  with  me !" 

she  said.  "  I  cannot  bear  it !" 

"  I  could  not  trifle  with  you  thus,  Mrs. 
Watson.  What  I  say  is  true." 

"  Who  sent  for  me  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  do  not  know." 

"  Is  any  body  waiting  for  me  ?" 

"  No  one  but  the  driver.  He  came  alone." 

For  a  few  moments,  Mrs.  Watson  paused 
to  take  counsel  of  her  own  thoughts,  and 
then  said  firmly — 

"  I  will  go." 

In  a  brief  space  of  time  she  was  dressed 
in  the  garments  which  had  been  sent,  and 
they  fitted  her  as  well  as  if  they  had  been 
her  own.  Taking  an  affectionate  and  even 
tearful  farewell  of  the  matron,  who  had  been 


tvvvYvv\,%^^^vv^x^v^^ 


•*^--*»VN*X 


56 


FAMILY    PRIDE. 


a  mother  to  her,  she  got  into  the  carriage 
and  was  driven  off. 

A  ride  of  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  brought  her 
in  front  of  a  neat  house  in  street,  be- 
fore which  the  carriage  stopped.  The  driver 
nanded  her  out  and  rung  the  bell.  The  ser- 
vant who  opened  the  door,  ushered  her  into 
one  of  the  handsomely  furnished  parlours, 
where  she  started  to  perceive,  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  in  tears,  the  same 
little  girl  she  had  seen  when  last  repulsed 
from  her  father's  house. 

"  My  mother !"  said  the  child,  advancing 
hurriedly  toward  her. 

"My  child?  My  little  Emily?  O,  yes! 
yes! — You  are  my  long-lost  darling!"  she 
said,  catching  her  to  her  bosom,  after  looking 
into  her  dark  eyes  for  a  moment  with  a 
searching  yet  fond  expression. 

"  My  name  is  Agnes,"  said  the  child,  with 
something  of  doubt  in  her  tone. 

"  They  have  only  changed  your  name, 
that  is  all.  You  are  my  own  child  !  My 
heart  tells  me  so !  But  what  are  you  doing 
here  ?  Whose  house  is  this  ?" 

In  answer  to  this  the  child  pointed  to  a 
small  package  upon  a  pier  table,  which  she 
immediately  handed  to  her  new-found  rela- 
tion. It  was  addressed — "  Emily  T ." 

On  breaking  it  open,  she  found  it  to  contain 
certificates  of  stock  to  the  amount  of  fifty 
thousand  dollars,  and  this  short  note: — 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  57 

"  Your  child  is  restored  to  you.  This 
house  is  your  own,  and  also  the  enclosed 
property.  Forget  the  past,  and  be  happy." 

"  Who  is  here  besides  you  1"  she  asked, 
turning  to  her  child. 

"  No  one  but  the  servants.  It 's  your  house 
now,"  replied  the  child,  looking  up  earnestly 
and  fondly  into  her  mother's  face. 

Mrs.  Watson  again  clasped  her  to  her 
neart,  and  imprinted  kisses  all  over  her 
blooming  young  cheeks. 

"  I  fear  this  is  all  a  fond  dream,"  she  mur- 
mured to  herself,  looking  earnestly  around 
her.  "  But  where  is  your  grandfather?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  child,  sadly. 
"  He  brought  me  here  an  hour  ago,  gave  me 
a  letter  which  told  me  all  about  how  I  was 
stolen  feom  you  when  I  was  but  a  little  child, 
and  then  he  kissed  my  cheek,  while  a  tear 
fell  upon  my  face,  and  said,  '  I  shall  never 
see  you  again,  Agnes.  Be  a  good  child. 
Love  your  poor  mother,  who  will  soon  be 
here,  and  don't  forget  your  old  grandfather, 
who  will  never  forget  you.'  Then  he  held 
me  to  his  breast,  for  a  long  time.  After  that 
he  kissed  me  again,  and  went  away." 

The  child  wept  bitterly  on   making   this         } 
recital,   and   the   mother's    tears  flowed  as 
freely. 

From  that  hour,  a  new  morning  dawned 
upon  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Watson.  Her  lost  \ 


58  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

ont,  long  mourned,  was  restored,  and  under 
circumstances  more  favourable  than  any  she 
could  have  hoped  for.  Still,  she  could  not 
disguise  from  herself,  after  the  passage  of  a 
few  days,  that  the  child  pined  for  her  grand 
father,  towards  whom  she  entertained  the 
most  tender  affection. 

"  He  said  he  would  never  see  me  any 
more,"  was  her  only  reply  to  the  oft-repeated 
hope  expressed  by  her  mother,  that  he  would 
come  to  them  again ;  and  this  was  generally 

|         uttered  with  a  trembling  voice,  and  tearful 

\         eyes. 

"  You  loved  your  grandfather  very  much?" 

j         Mrs.  Watson  remarked,  one   day,  about  a 

'         week  after  she   had    been   restored    to  her 

\         child. 

"  O  yes !  For  he  loved  me,  and  was  al- 
ways good  to  me.  And  so  was  grandma. 
But  I  don't  know  what  ailed  her  for  a  good 
while  before  she  died.  Almost  every  day,  if 
I  happened  to  go  into  her  room  after  she  had 
been  alone  there  for  a  good  while,  I  would 
find  her  crying.  If  I  went  up  to  her,  and 
asked  her  what  ailed  her,  she  would  some- 
times try  to  smile,  and  say  that  nothing  ailed 

$          her;  but  very  often  she  would  draw  her  arm 

;;          around  me,  and  look  for  a  long  time  into  my 
face,  so  strangely  that  I  used  to  feel  afraid. 

j         Once,  I  remember,  she  said,  after  looking  at 
me  for  a  good  while,  as  if  to  herself— 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  59 

" '  How  like  her  mother  !' 

"  Then  she  started,  as  if  something  had 
frightened  her,  and  said — 

"'  You  can  go  down  stairs,  dear:  I  wish 
to  be  alone.' " 

"  Then  she  never  told  you  anything  about 
me?" 

"  No.  But  I  heard  about  you  often  from 
old  Nelly.  Once,  I  remember  coming  down 
stairs,  and  seeing  a  woman  in  the  passage 
who  looked  at  me  very  strangely,  so  that  I 
felt  a  little  afraid.  I  went  up  to  grandma, 
and  told  her  about  it.  She  seemed  very 
much  troubled  about  something,  and  said  I 
mustn't  go  down  while  that  woman  was  in 
the  passage — that  she  would  carry  me  off  if 
she  could." 

As  the  child  said  this,  Mrs.  Watson  burst 
into  tears,  and  wept  violently  for  some  time. 
But  regaining,  at  length,  her  composure,  she 
asked  of  the  bewildered  child — 

"  Did  you  hear  anything  more  of  that 
woman  ?"* 

"  O  yes.  She  staid  down  in  the  pa&sage 
until  grandpa  came  home.  He  was  terribly 
angry  about  it,  and  made  the  waiter  put  her 
out  into  the  street.  Old  Nelly  cried  a  whole 
day  about  it.  I  heard  her  say  to  the  waiter 
that  it  was  a  cruel  shame,  and  that  no  good 
ever  came  to  people  who  acted  in  that  way — 
that  Miss  Emily,  as  she  called  her,  was  the 


t?0  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

best  of  the  whole  of  them,  and  that  she  would 
work  her  finger-ends  off  for  her,  if  she  knew 
where  to  find  her.  After  the  woman  had 
been  put  out,  I  went  down  stairs,  and  heard 
Nelly  talking  in  this  way.  I  listened  to  all 
she  said,  and  once  or  twice  asked  her  who 
tne  woman  was;  but  she  wouldn't  tell  me 
then.  But  one  day,  about  a  week  afterwards, 
she  said  it  was  my  mother.  Oh  !  how  quickly 
I  ran  up  to  grandma,  and  told  her  what  Nelly 
had  said,  asking  at  the  same  time,  with  eager- 
ness, if  she  was  really  my  mother. 

"  I  never  saw  grandma  so  angry  as  this 
made  her.  Her  face  grew  very  pale,  and  she 
couldn't  speak  for  some  time,  while  I  kept 
asking  her  if  what  Nelly  had  told  me  was 
so.  At  last  she  took  me  upon  her  lap,  and 
said — 

" '  I  am  your  only  mother,  Agnes.  You 
have  no  other.  You  must  not  think  about 
the  idle  stories  of  the  servants.  I  shall  see 
that  Nelly  is  well  punished  for  this.' 

«"O  no,  grandma,  don't  punish  her,'  I  said 
in  alarm.  '  She  didn't  mean  anything  wrong. 
She  only  said  the  woman  was  my  mother.' 

"  But  grandma  seemed  very  angry  when 
she  thought  about  what  Nelly  had  told  me, 
and  said  something  in  a  low  voice  that  I 
could  not  understand,  while  her  face  was 
very  angry.  Poor  Nelly !  I  never  saw  her 
after  the  next  day.  Grandpa  sold  her  off,  no 


FAMILY   PRIDE.  61 

one  knew  where.  I  cried  for  a  great  many 
days  after  she  had  gone  away,  for  she  had 
always  been  good  to  me,  and  seemed  to  love 
me  more  than  all  the  other  servants  did." 

"  Poor  Nelly  !"  murmured  Mrs.  Watson, 
half  aloud,  as  Agnes  closed  the  last  sentence, 
while  she  could  with  difficulty  restrain  a 
gush  of  passionate  tears.  "  And  was  thy  love 
for  me  thus  cruelly  repaid?"  Then,  rallying 
herself,  she  asked — 

"  Have  you  never  heard  where  Nelly  was 
sent  ?" 

"No.  I  have  often  asked  the  other  ser- 
vants, but  none  of  them  knew.  But  tell  me, 
mother,  was  it  you,  indeed,  whom  grandpa 
put  out  of  the  house  ?" 

"  It  was,  my  dear  child,  your  own  mother, 
who  was  so  cruelly  treated.  But  let  us  try 
and  forget  that.  The  recollection  of  it  is 
too  painful  to  me.  At  some  future  time,  when 
you  have  learned  to  know  me  better,  and  to 
love  me  and  to  confide  in  me  as  indeed  your 
mother,  I  will  explain  all  to  you.  For  the 
present,  I  will  merely  say,  that  the  offence 
against  my  parents,  which  it  seems  is  not  to 
be  forgiven  me,  was  no  act  for  which  my 
child  need  blush.  My  father  and  mother's 
pride  of  family  was  very  great.  In  marry- 
ing, I  offended  this,  and  was  disowned  by 
them.  You,  by  some  means,  they  managed 
tf  steal  away,  and  leave  me  to  bear  the  un- 


62  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

speakable  anguish  of  your  loss.   But  you  are 
again  restored    to    me,    and    by  my  father 
Thus  far  he  has  endeavoured  to  repair  the         <• 
wrong  I  have  suffered,  and  for  all  that  is  past 
I  forgive  him,  as  for  all  that  I  have  done  of 

$         evil,  I  hope  to  be  forgiven  of  my  Father  in 

\         Hearen." 

As  Mrs.  Watson  said  this,  she  once  more 
drew  her  little  girl  to  her  bosom  in  a  long  and 

{  close  embrace,  kissing  her  dear  young  face 
and  watering  it  freely  with  her  tears. 

Time  passed  on,  and  Mrs.  Watson  con- 

\  tinued  tolive  in  deep  seclusion  with  her  daugh- 
ter. She  rarely  went  out,  and  then  only  for 
the  purpose  of  attending  to  necessary  busi- 
ness. One  or  two  friends  of  the  family  ven  • 
tured  to  call  upon  her,  and  with  these  a  pleas- 
ant, thqugh,  at  first,  quite  a  reserved  inter- 
course was  entered  into.  A  year  passed,  arid 
no  word  from  her  father  reached  her.  It  was 
said  that  he  had  gone  abroad,  but  even  of 
this  she  had  no  certain  intelligence.  It  might, 
or  it  might  not  be  so.  Between  her  and  her 
child,  had  come  to  exist  the  most  confiding 
tender,  and  unreserved  intercourse.  After 
having  explained  the  past  events  of  her  life 
fully  enough  to  make  Agnes  (as  she  continued 
to  call  her)  feel  satisfied  that  her  mother  had 
been  guilty  of  no  moral  defection,  she  ceased 
to  allude  to  them  altogether,  but  spoke  of  her 
father  with  great  kindness,  and  sighed  as 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  63 

earnestly  for  his  return  as  did  her  child. 
While  at  the  Aims-House,  under  the  kind 
promptings  of  the  excellent  matron,  her  mind 
had  gradually  been  elevated  to  those  higher 
and  purer  considerations  that  regard  our 
duty  to  Him  who  is  the  Father  of  us  all.  It 
was  this  that  had  sustained  her  while  there, 
and  enabled  her,  when  removed  from  that 
painful  condition  to  one  so  pleasant  as  that 
which  awaited  her,  to  look  up  still,  and  bless 
the  hand  that  gave  her  benefits.  The  confi- 
dence in  Divine  Providence,  upon  which  her 
heart  continued  to  repose,  she  endeavoured,  ; 
as  far  as  Agnes  was  capable  of  understand-  I 
ing  it,  to  impart  to  hei  Gradually,  she  led  \ 
her  young  and  tender  mind  to  look  up  to  Him 
who  governs  all  events  by  infinite  wisdom 
from  infinite  love,  and  who,  both  by  prosper- 
ous and  adverse  circumstances,  is  ever  trying  \ 
to  lead  us  to  himself,  that  he  may  bless  us 
with  unspeakable  blessings.  The  result  of 
all  this  was  salutary  in  a  high  degree.  Ag- 
nes feels  the  beauty  and  sacredness  of  a  reli- 
gious principle^  in  life.  Its  purity  accorded 
with  her  innocence.  God  she  felt  to  be  over 
all  and  in  all,  governing  events  for  good. 

"  Even  the  absence  of  your  grandfather," 
her  mother  said  to  her  one  evening,  about 

two  years  after  Gen.  T had  gone  away, 

while  leading  her  tender  mind  upward,  where 
alone  she  had  found  true  peace,  "  will,  I  cher- 


FAMILY  PRIDE. 

ish  continually  the  hope,  prove  ultimately  a 
blessing  both  to  him  and  us.  He  will,  I  feel 
sure,  yet  return.  He  must  return.  Ad- 
vanced in  years,  and  alone  among  strangers, 
his  heart  cannot  but  turn  towards  you  at 
least,  and  you  will  draw  him  home.  I  pray 
for  his  welfare  daily.  I  pray  that  he  may 
be  restored  to  us.  And  I  feel  every  day  a 
strong  and  a  stronger  assurance  that  he  will 
be  restored  to  us,  if  alive." 

At  the  last  word,  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Wat- 
son trembled,  while  Agnes  burst  into  tears. 
The  thought  of  death  melted  down  both  of 
their  feelings  in  an  instant. 

The  hour  had  worn  away  until  nearly  the 
time  for  retiring  for  the  night.  As  had  been 
the  mother's  custom  for  nearly  a  year,  she 
opened  the  Bible,  after  having  recovered  her 
usual  calmness  of  mind,  and  read  a  portion 
of  Sacred  truth.  Then,  bending  with  her 
child,  she  offered  up  to  Him,  whose  ear  is 
ever  open  to  the  petitions  of  his  creatures, 
her  humble  acknowledgments  for  past  mer- 
cies, with  prayers  for  future  good,  such  as 
His  wisdom  might  see  best  for  her.  Nor  did 
she  forget  the  loved  absent  one,  for  whose  re- 
turn her  heart  pined  daily  and  nightly.  Thus 
bending  before  Him  who  seeth  the  secrets  of 
all  hearts,  we  will  leave,  for  the  present,  the 
mother  and  her  child. 


FAMILY    I'KIDE.  05 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Early  one  morning,  two  years  from  the  day 

on  which  General  T had  restored  Agnes 

to  her  mother,  an  elderly  man  was  pacing  back- 
ward and  forward,  with  hurried  steps,  a  room 
in  one  of  the  largest  London  hotels.  He  was 
evidently  suffering  from  painful  reflections. 
Sometimes  he  would  take  up  from  a  table  a 
small  richly-set  miniature  of  a  child,  and 
gaze  upon  it  long  and  earnestly ;  then  he 
would  lay  it  down  with  a  sigh,  and  continue 
his  walk,  but  more  hurriedly  than  ever.  At 
length  he  sat  down  beside  the  table,  and 
again  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  picture. 

"  Dear,  dear  child !"  he  murmured,  in  a 
low,  broken  voice.  "  Shall  I  never  look  upon 
your  living  face  again?  Living!"  he  added 
with  a  shudder,  as  a  new  thought  flashed 
across  his  mind — "  How  do  /  know  whether 
she  be  living  or  dead  !  Heaven  be  merciful  !'* 
he  continued,  his  face  assuming  an  expres- 
sion of  terror.  "What  if  she  be  dead  !"  and 
again  a  nervous  shudder  went  thrilling 
through  his  frame. 

For  some  time  he  sat  leaning  his  head 
upon  his  hand,  as  if  debating  some  question, 
6* 


I 

I 

06  FAMILY   PRIDE. 

and  still  irresolute  about  coming  to  a  deci- 
sion. 

"  I  have  been  a  fool, — a  madman  !"  he  at 
length  muttered  to  himself. 

"  Yes,  worse  than  a  fool  or  a  madman  !" 
he  added,  after  a  few  moments'  pause. 

"  I  will  see  my  child !"  he  at  length  said, 
springing  suddenly  to  his  feet,  as  if  he  had 
consummated  a  growing  resolution  by  a  sud- 
den and  violent  effort. 

Three  days  from  that  time  saw  him  on 
board  of  a  New  York  packet,  gently  gliding 
down  the  Thames.  His  eyes  were  not  cast 
back  upon  the  mighty  city  he  was  leaving, 
but  eagerly  forward ;  measuring  with  his 
eye  the  distance  from  object  to  object,  that 
indicated  the  progress  of  the  vessel.  Now 
that  he  had  resolved  to  cross  the  ocean,  he 
was  all  eagerness  to  hurry  on  his  way. 
Morning  after  morning  would  he  seek  the 
deck  of  the  vessel,  even  when  but  a  few  day? 
out,  and  strain  his  eyes  musingly,  and  with  a 
vague  hope  of  land  in  his  mind,  far  over  the 
mountain  billows.  Thirty  days  of  pleasanf 
weather  brought  him  safely  into  New  York 
It  was  but  an  hour  before  the  Philadelphia 
steamboat  was  to  start,  when  the  vessel  ar- 
rived ;  when  the  steamboat  drew  off,  the  old 
man  was  one  of  her  passengers. 

It  was  night,  owing  to  an  unusual  deten- 
tion on  the  day  after,  when  he  arrived  in 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  67 

B ,  and  he  was  fast  failing  in  strength 

under  the  powerful  excitement  of  mind  that 
had  prevailed  since  he  left  London. 

Just  at  nine  o'clock  a  carriage  brought 
him  to  the  door  of  Mrs.  Watson's  pleasant 

dwelling  in  street.  He  was  trembling 

all  over  like  a  leaf. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Watson  ?"  he  asked  of  the 
servant  who  opened  the  door. 

"  She  is  in  her  chamber,"  said  the  servant, 
in  surprise  at  the  strange  earnestness  and 
demanding  tone  of  the  question. 

Without  pausing,  he  glided  by  the  servant, 
and  hurried  up  stairs.  Just  as  he  placed  his 
hand  upon  the  lock  of  the  door,  he  heard  a 
voice,  and  he  was  suddenly  impressed  with 
a  desire  to  listen. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Watson.  And  the 
tones  were  those  of  supplication. 

"  And  my  dear  father,"  she  said,  "  where- 
ever  he  may  be — O  send  him  consolation ! 
Soften  his  heart,  and,  if  it  be  Thy  will, 
grant  that  we  may  yet  meet  before  we 
die." 

"  Your  prayer  is  answered,  Emily,"  said 
her  father,  for  it  was  he,  throwing  open  the 
door,  and  staggering  toward  her  with  ex- 
tended arms. 

Instantly  springing  to  her  feet,  in  momen- 
tary alarm,  Mrs.  Watson  turned  toward  the 
door.  One  glance  told  all :  and,  in  the  next 


68  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

moment,  father  and  child  were  clasped  in 
each  other's  arms. 

"  O  grandfather  !"  cried  Agnes,  by  which 
name  her  mother  continued  to  call  her,  as 
soon  as  she  perceived  who  was  the  intruding 
stranger,  also  starting  forward. 

"  Do  I  indeed  see  that  angel  face  again !" 
he  said,  disengaging  an  arm  that  was  around 
his  daughter,  and  drawing  Agnes  to  his 
bosom.  "  I  could  not  live  without  you,  my 
dear  child !  and  so  I  have  come  back  to  go 
away  no  more." 

This  was  said  in  a  broken  voice,  while  the 
tears  wandered  down  his  time-worn  cheeks. 
Two  years  of  intense  and  almost  constant 
struggles  of  pride  against  affection — of  reason 
against  blind  and  powerful  passion — had 
done  more  to  break  down  and  enfeeble  his 
frame  than  twenty  years  of  a  life  unmarked 
bv  such  fierce  contests  with  cherished  evils. 
His  head  had  whitened,  his  cheeks  had  be- 
come sunken  and  pale,  and  his  body  was 
slightly  bent. 

How  wild  and  tremulous  was  the  joy  that 
fluttered  through  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Watson ! 
Twc  years  of  calm  devotion  to  her  child,  so 
unexpectedly  restored  to  her,  with  the  ear- 
nest cultivation  of  a  religious  principle,  had 
restored  her  mind  to  a  sober  and  rational 
perception  of  the  good  and  the  true  in  all 
things.  She  was  no  longer  the  slave  of  pas- 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  69 

sions  and  feelings  that  found  excitement  in 
false  perceptions.  She  had  passed  through 
the  fires  of  affliction,  and  out  of  them  she  had 
come  with  the  dross  of  her  character  con- 
sumed, and  the  gold  refined.  Now,  the  joy 
of  her  heart,  although  it  swelled  almost  into 
ecstacy,  was  not  a  selfish  joy  at  the  restora- 
tion and  reconciliation  that  had  taken  place. 
It  looked  to  the  happiness  of  her  father,  as 
well  as  to  her  own  delight. 

"  I  am  so  happy !"  she  said,  after  they 
were  all  calmer,  and  had  become  seated, 
leaning  her  head  back  upon  her  father's 
breast,  and  looking  up  into  his  face,  while 
the  tears  of  joy  rolled  from  her  eyes. 

"  How  can  you  ever  forgive  me  ?"  he  said, 
"  for—" 

"  Don't  speak  of  that,  dear  father,"  she 
said,  hastily.  "  Out  of  the  painful  afflictions 
of  the  past  we  have  all  come  wiser  and  bet- 
ter. All  these  things  may  have  been  neces- 
sary for  our  good.  Let  us  now  forget  them. 
We  have  the  present  to  improve  and  to  en- 
joy. /  wanted  only  your  return  to  be  happy. 
Mav  our  presence  restore  you  to  all  lost  de- 
lights." 

General  T did  not  reply,  —  for  his 

tongue  could  not  have  obeyed  the  impulse  of 
his  thoughts, — but  he  bent  down  and  kissed 
the  cheek  of  his  child  with  fervour. 

But  I  will  dwell  no  longer  on  this  scene 


70  FAMILY    PRIDE. 

of  joy.  General  T had  sought,  in  travel, 

to  wean  his  thoughts  and  feelings  from  their 
intense  and  yearning  desire  for  the  presence 
of  his  grandchild,  whose  gentle  spirit  had 
touched  his  heart  with  unaccustomed  tender- 
ness. But  he  sought  in  vain.  Gradually,  his 
abiding  state  of  unhappiness  purified,  in  a 
good  degree,  his  moral  perceptions,  and  he 
was  led  to  see  and  to  shudder  at  the  wicked- 
ness and  cruelty  he  had  so  wantonly  in- 
dulged. An  emotion  of  pity  for  the  child  he 
had  so  injured  begat  some  feeble  touches  of 
affection ;  and  these  increased,  until  he  was 
at  last  forced  back,  as  the  reader  has  seen, 
to  consummate  the  eager  wishes  of  himself 
and  his  children. 

The  introduction  of  Mrs.  Watson  into  the 
Aims-House,  under  circumstances  so  dis- 
tressing, was  one  among  the  most  singular 
of  those  reverses  of  fortune,  to  which  nearly 
all  who  found  their  way  there  had  been  sub- 
ject. The  knowledge  of  it  prevailed,  I  be- 
lieve, in  certain  circles ;  but  it  was  not  known 
in  the  city  generally.  Few  who  saw  her  af- 
terward, with  her  beautiful  daughter,  moving 
in  the  most  select  and  intelligent  circles  in 
B ,  would  have  dreamed  of  such  a  pas- 
sage in  her  life.  She  was  ever  cheerful  in 
conversation,  and  pleasant  and  easy  in  man- 
ners. But  the  shadow  that  had  been  so  long 
reflected  upon  her  brow,  never  became  en- 


FAMILY    PRIDE.  7J 

tirely  effaced,    though   every  passing  year 
softened   it  more   and  more.     Old  General 

T has  been  dead  many  years.     A  ones 

married  a  rich  southern  planter,  several  years 
ago,  and,  with  her  mother,  removed  to  the 
fcouth.  Where  they  are,  or  what  is  their  con 
nition.  1  know  not. 


MARY  ELLIS  j 

OB,    THE   RUNAWAY   MATCH 


CHAPTER   I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

IT  is  rarely  that  our  sympathies  are  awakened 
for  the  poor  who  reside  near  us,  and  daily  pass 
our  dwellings.  How  indifferent  are  we  to  their 
condition — how  regardless  of  their  wants !  Un- 
less their  sufferings  and  privations  are  forced 
upon  our  notice,  we  dream  not  of  their  exist- 
ence. We  read  of  misery  in  towns  and  villages 
far  remote,  and  wonder  that  it  could  be  allowed 
to  exist;,  we  even  venture  so  far  as  to  pass 
strong  censure  upon  those  who  failed  to  relieve 
it,  and  think,  "  surely  they  must  have  known 
of  its  presence !"  and  yet,  perhaps,  in  the  low 
comfortless  habitation  beside  our  own  dwelling, 
is  one  suffering  almost  to  the  extent  of  human 
1 


2  MARYELLIS. 

endurance,  and  we  know  it  not.  While  sym- 
pathizing with  the  far  off  distress,  we  forget 
that  want  and  suffering  are  all  around  us. 

Thus  I  mused,  after  passing  from  the  poor, 
half  furnished  dwelling  of  the  widow  Morrison. 
She  had  lived  a  few  doors  away  from  my  own 
home  for  years ;  and  although  I  had  often  no- 
ticed her,  sometimes  with  an  armful  of  wood, 
sometimes  with  her  pail  of  water,  yet  no  feeling 
of  interest  in  her,  as  one  of  the  great  human 
family,  had  ever  been  awakened  in  my  bosom. 

It  was  a  cold  morning  in  January,  with  a 
deep  snow  upon  the  ground,  when  I  noticed,  as 
I  passed  in  the  morning  to  my  business,  that 
the  widow  Morrison's  windows  were  not  open 
as  usual.  Why  I  observed  this,  I  knew  not,  for 
I  had  never  thought  much  about  her.  But, 
somehow  or  other,  the  fact  of  the  windows  being 
closed,  haunted  me  all  the  while,  and  when  I 
started  to  go  home  for  dinner,  I  felt  a  nervous 
anxiety  to  know  whether  the  windows  were  still 
closed.  A  chilling  sensation  ran  through  my 
nerves  as  I  came  in  sight  of  the  poor  looking 
tenement,  and  saw  that  there  was  still  no  sign 
of  life  about  the  house.  I  did  not,  however, 
yet,  feel  interest  enough  in  the  poor  widow  to 
call  in  to  see  why  she  was  not  stirring  as  usual. 


MARY    ELLIS. 

There  might  be  many  reasons  why  she  had  not 
unclosed  her  windows.  She  might  be  away  on 
a  visit.  And  no  doubt  she  is,  I  said  to  mysell 
— thus  endeavoring  to  quiet  the  strange  concern 
I  felt. 

I  said  nothing  about  it  during  dinner ;  and 
left  as  usual  for  my  place  of  business ;  not, 
however,  in  passing,  without  casting  an  eye  of 
concern  upon  the  closed  windows  of  the  dwell- 
ing of  the  poor  widow.  Her  image  was  present 
to  my  mind  during  all  the  afternoon ;  and  as  the 
day  began  to  draw  to  a  close,  I  grew  so  restless, 
that  I  could  no  longer  restrain  a  desire  to  go  at 
once  and  satisfy  myself  of  her  real  condition. 
Once  having  made  up  my  mind  to  do  this,  I  lost 
no  time  in  repairing  to  her  humble  home. 

It  was  just  before  night-fall  when  I  knocked 
at  her  door,  but  there  was  no  answer  from 
within.  The  noise  was  returned  with  a  hollow 
deserted  echo.  I  shook  the  latch  rapidly,  and 
then  listened  for  a  sound,  but  none  came  to  my 
ear.  Yes  !  there  was  a  sound  ;  a  low,  feeble, 
child-like  murmur.  But  again  all  was  still.  I 
knocked  now  louder  than  before,  and  shook  the 
rattling  door  violently,  for  my  mind  had  become 
strangely  agitated.  The  weak  fastening  gave 
way,  and  in  the  next  moment  I  stood,  for  the 


first  time,  within  the  humble  dwelling  of  the 
poor  widow. 

Upon  a  low  bed,  with  scanty  clothing,  lay  the 
widow  Morrison,  cold  and  stiff  in  death.  With 
his  young  cheek  upon  her  pale,  cold  face, 
nestled  on  her  arm,  and  almost  within  her 
bosom,  was  a  sweet  child,  scarce  three  years 
old.  He  lifted  his  little  head  as  I  entered  thus 
abruptly,  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  and  then 
laying  his  white  hand  upon  her  face,  shook  her 
head  gently,  and  said — 

'•  Gran'ma,  get  up — Oh,  gran' ma,  get  up  ! 
I'm  so  cold  !" 

For  a  moment  my  feelings  overcame  me,  and 
my  eyes  filled  with  the  first  drops  that  had 
moistened  them  for  months.  Lifting,  in  the 
next  moment,  the  dear  child  from  his  cold  rest- 
ing place,  I  carried  him  at  once  to  my  own 
house ;  and  then,  with  some  of  my  family,  re- 
turned to  perform  the  last  offices  for  the  dead. 
Our  kindness  had  come  too  late  for  the  released 
sufferer.  How  shocked  were  our  feelings,  to 
find,  on  examination,  that  there  was  in  the  house 
neither  fuel  nor  food  !  Thus,  almost  at  our  next 
door,  had  one  perished  of  cold  and  hunger. 

From  a  friend  of  the  widow,  who  was  pre- 
sent at  the  burial,  I  gained  many  interesting 


MARY    ELLIS. 


particulars  of  her  life.  I  have  thrown  them 
into  form,  and  now  present  another  leaf  from 
khe  book  of  human  life,  though  blotted  and 
soiled  with  many  tears. 


CHAPTER  II. 

PARENTAL    ANXIETIES. 

IN  the  years  of  light-hearted  maidenhood, 
Mary  Ellis  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  the  happy. 
The  present  was  to  her  all  brightness  and  bloom 
— the  future  filled  with  glad  anticipations.  But 
like  too  many  others,  she  reposed  little  confi- 
dence in  the  experience  of  the  aged.  Innocent 
as  a  child,  she  had  ngver  suspected  anything 
but  rectitude  in  the  heart  of  another.  Sadly, 
through  many  years  of  sorrow  and  disappoint- 
ment, did  she  repent  her  early  thoughtlessness. 

Her  parents,  poor,  but  sensible  people,  looked 
with  much  concern  upon  their  only  child,  just 
entering  a  world  in  which  are  thickly  planted 
the  germs  of  sorrow,  and  where  temptation  is 
ready  to  meet  the  unwary  at  every  step.  Espe- 
cially did  they  feel  a  lively  anxiety  for  Mary, 
when  she  would  attend  any  of  the  "  parties*' 
which  were  then  so  frequent  among  the  young 


MARY    ELLIS. 

people  ;  for  she  was  handsome,  and  full  of  spi 
rits,  and  they  dreaded  lest  some  one,  unworthy 
of  her  in  every  way,  should  win  her  young  and 
happy  heart.  The  evenings  when  she  would 
be  thus  absent,  were  evenings  of  little  enjoy 
ment  to  them ;  for  always  on  such  occasions 
would  their  minds  revert  to  the  many  instances 
of  unhappy  marriages  which  had  fallen  under 
their  notice.  Let  me  introduce  the  old  couple 
for  a  few  minutes  to  the  reader.  Mary  has  gone 
to  a  party,  and  what  was  very  unusual,  instead 
of  going  before  night,  had  waited  until  after 
dark,  when  she  was  called  for  by  a  gay  look 
ing  young  man,  whom  she  introduced  as  Mr 
Morrison 

The  old  couple  sat  for  some  time  in  silence 
after  they  were  gone  ;  at  last  the  father  re- 
marked, in  a  slow,  serious  tone  : 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  feel  altogether  right  about 
our  Mary,  to-night.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  never 
was,  and  am  less  now  than  ever,  a  friend  of 
these  parties." 

"  Those  are  just  my  own  thoughts,"  replied 
Mrs.  Ellis.  "  I  do  wish  our  Mary  would  stay 
at  home.  But,  you  know,  Thomas,  that  we 
can't  expect  young  folks  to  feel  as  we  do." 

«'  True — true.     But  then,  we  old  folks  can 


MARY    ELLIS.  » 

see  danger  when  they  only  know  delight  I 
know  Mary  is  a  good  girl ;  but  she  is  thought- 
less, and  knows  nothing  of  the  world.  But 
who  is  this  Mr.  Morrison  ?  I  cannot  say  that  I 
like  his  looks.  There  is  too  much  of  the  fop 
about  him,  and  too  little  of  the  man." 

<f  In  truth,  Thomas,  I  cannot  say.  But  when 
I  think  of  poor  Sarah  Jones,  and  of  her  mar- 
riage with  the  gay  but  graceless  Wilkins,  who 
broke  her  heart  in  a  year,  I  tremble  for  our  own 
dear  child.  I  want  to  know  all  about  the  man 
who  steps  beyond  our  door-stone  with  Mary, 
and  I  not  by  their  side.  No  stranger  can  ever 
gain  my  willing  consent  to  her  hand,  unless 
innocence  be  written  upon  his  face  in  characters 
that  none  can  mistake. 

"  I  agree  with  you  there,  wife.  But  the 
young  heart  is  wayward  in  its  loves.  We  must 
not  expect  to  find  Mary  with  a  judgment  as  ma- 
tured as  our  own,  or  even  willing  to  profit  by 
our  experience." 

"  That  is  the  thing  that  troubles  me,"  replied 
Mrs.  Ellis.  "  The  time  may  not  be  far  off,  when 
we  may,  perhaps,  see  her  standing  on  the  very 
edge,  as  it  were,  of  a  dreadful  precipice,  and 
yet  be  unable  to  open  her  eyes  to  her  periloui 
situation  ;  and  have  the  agony  to  see  her  take 


MARY    ELLIS. 

the  fatal  leap,  even  while  we  are  conjuring  her, 
by  all  the  love  that  is  in  our  hearts,  to  start  hack 
from  her  danger." 

Tear  after  tear  stole  down  from  the  eyes  of 
Mrs.  Ellis,  as  her  feelings  overcame  her  in 
view  of  so  sorrowful  a  reality. 

"  I  wonder,"  continued  Mrs.  Ellis,  recover- 
ing herself,  "that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jameson  are 
willing  to  have  promiscuous  assemblages  of 
young  persons  at  their  house,  when  they  have 
three  daughters,  each  of  whom  is  in  danger  of 
forming  an  unhappy  intimacy  with  some  one 
unsuited  to  her  in  every  way." 

"  The  three  daughters,  you  may  be  sure,  is 
the  only  reason  for  these  parties.  They  are  to 
be  married  off;  and  Mrs.  Jameson  is  the  very 
woman  to  plan  schemes  for  getting  them 
mated  !" 

«'  Strange,  and  unnatural !" 

"  Truly,  it  is  so.  But  there  are  too  many 
who  have  families,  and  yet  do  not  understand 
how  to  take  the  right  care  of  them.  And  the 
worst  of  it  is,  their  own  children  are  not  alone 
the  sufferers." 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Thomas,  that  we  are  not 
discharging  our  duty  to  our  child,  when  we 
suffer  her  to  mingle  in  such  company,  as  we 


MARY    ELLIS. 

have  too  much  reason  to  believe  is  to  be  found 
at  Mrs.  Jameson's." 

"  I  have  thought  so  myself,  often,"  replied 
Mr.  Ellis.  "  But  have  not  yet  found  it  in  my 
heart  to  deny  her  a  participation  in  the  parties 
of  young  persons,  in  which  she  seems  to  tako 
so  much  pleasure." 

From  the  anxious  father  and  mother  at  home, 
waiting,  lonely  and  troubled  in  spirits,  for  the 
return  of  the  light  of  tneir  countenances,  even 
until  the  hour  of  midnight,  let  us  turn  to  the 
gay  assemblage  of  thoughtless  young  persons, 
amid  whom  Mary  Ellis  is  the  centre  of  attrac- 
tion. Let  us  mingle  with  them,  and  see  and 
hear  what  it  is  that  makes  the  time  pass  so  plea- 
santly and  so  swiftly  away. 


CHAPTER  III. 

PARTY-GOING. 

IT  is  a  mild  evening  in  June.  We  enter  a 
room,  brightly  illuminated,  the  furniture  of 
which  is  more  showy  than  costly.  This  room 
is  filled  to  overflowing  with  young  persons  of 
both  sexes.  They  seem  to  be  in  high  spirits, 
if  we  may  judge  from  the  merry  peals  of 


10  MARY    ELLIS. 

laughter  that  fall  from  their  lips.  Let  us  trace 
out  the  cause  of  this  hearty  mirth.  Ah !  we 
have  found  it.  A  black  waiter  has  handed  a 
lady  a  glass  of  brandy  in  place  of  wine,  and 
she  has  taken  nearly  the  whole  of  it  before 
making  the  discovery. 

But  where  is  Mary  Ellis  ?  Oh  !  here  she  is, 
leaning,  with  too  confiding  an  air,  upon  the  arm 
of  a  gaily  dressed  young  man,  who  is  whisper- 
ing something  in  her  ear  that  seems  to  please 
her  greatly.  How  sweetly  she  smiles  !  From 
the  liquid  depths  of  those  soft  eyes  look  out  the 
very  soul  of  affection ;  and  yet  they  are  bright 
with  a  wealth  of  innocent  joyfulness.  In  every 
movement  there  is  grace,  simple  and  natural ; 
and  her  voice  is  u  music's  own." 

From  a  contemplation  of  her  loveliness  we 
are  startled  by  a  vulgar  laugh  at  one  end  of  the 
room. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  Tom!— Ha!  ha!  ha!  Tom! 
She's  more  than  a  match  for  you  !" 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  the  scene  of  mirth. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  here  ?"  asks  a 
dozen  voices  ;  and  one  answers — 

"  Why,  Tom,  here,  has  attempted  to  clash  wits 
with  Miss  Jameson,  but  she's  more  than  a  match 
for  him.  I  tell  you,  though, -she  is  hard  to  beat." 


MART    ELLIS.  11 

Let  us  listen  to  the  elegant  and  witty  spar- 
ring. 

"  You  say,  Mr.  Welsh,  that  I  am  too  wide 
awake  for  a  lady.  You  are  mistaken  there,  for 
I  always  feign  dullness  when  with  you,  to  make 
myself  agreeable." 

"  It  is  well  for  me,  Miss  Jameson,"  retorts 
Mr.  Welch,  "  that  you  were  so  considerate,  for 
if  you  had  thown  all  your  soul  into  your  eyes, 
I  should  have  been  consumed  in  their  bright- 
ness." 

"Not  so  bad,  Mr.  Welsh  !  I  am  almost  dis- 
posed to  cry  quits." 

"  Do,  pray — for  I  shall  hate  to  retire  from 
the  field  worsted." 

"  O,  that  would  be  no  disgrace  to  you." 

"  Indeed,  and  why  ?"  asks  Mr.  Welsh. 

"  Because,"  replies  the  lady,  "  no  one  ex- 
pects anything  else.  When  we  disappoint  the 
reasonable  expectations  of  our  friends,  then  fail- 
ure is  truly  mortifying." 

Similar  to  this  was  the  lady-like  sally  that 
had  called  forth  such  peals  of  rude  and  boister- 
ous mirth.  But  see  !  all  is  again  quiet,  and 
interest  and  expectation  sits  on  every  face.  Ah ! 
the  explanation  is  at  hand.  Here  comes  sundry 
waiters  with  wines,  fruit,  and  confectionary ; 


12  MART   ELLIS. 

the  third  round  within  an  hour.   See  how  earn- 
estly they  have  all  commenced  eating,  as  though 


it  were  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  of  life.    And 
their  tongues  are  no  less  idle  than  their  teeth. 

This  course  of  refreshments  through,  and  all 
parties  more  or  less  stimulated  by  the  wine, 
their  merriment  becomes  more  loud  and  less 
rational.  The  piano,  which  earlier  in  the  even 
ing  was  made  to  give  out  sweet  and  gentle 
music,  now  accompanies  the  "Lithping  Lover," 
the  "Schoolmaster,"  or  "Lord  Lovel,"  suc- 
ceeded by  the  half  insane  "  bravos,"  and  calls 
for  a  repetition  of  the  piece. 

As  most  of  the  assembly  have  conscientious 
scruples  about  dancing,  and  would  be  struck 
with  pious  horror  at  the  sound  of  a  violin,  a 
promenade  is  substituted  by  way  of  variety. 

(i  Will  you  take  my  arm,  Miss  Mary  ?"  said 
young  Morrison,  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  move- 
ment; and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  in  deep 
conversation,  unnoticed,  because  in  the  prome- 
nade each  individual  was  too  much  interested 
with  his  or  her  partner  to  observe  others. 

Pressing  her  arm  closely  within  his,  Morri- 
son, who  was  as  really  charmed  with  Mary  as  \ 
a  thoroughly  selfish  man  can  be  with  a  lovely           j 
woman,  began  to  insinuate  in  more  direct  terms 


MARY    ELLIS.  13 

than  hs  had  ever  yet  done,  that  he  felt  for  her 
a  strong  preference.  Their  acquaintance  had 
been  of  but  recent  date  ;  and  with  no  knowledge 
of  his  character,  a  prudent  girl  would  have  at 
once  thrown  him  from  the  subject,  and  left  his 
company  as  early  as  possible.  But  Mary  was 
excited  by  the  circ.umstances  surrounding  her, 
and  her  rational  perceptions  had  been  rendered 
indistinct  by  the  frivolous  nonsense  which  had 
flowed  all  around,  and  in  which  she  had  been  a 
willing  participant.  She  had  already  been  turn- 
ing over  in  her  mind  the  question  whether 
Morrison  did  really  love  her,  and  whether  he 
would  say  so  at  once  or  keep  her  in  suspense, 
when  she  perceived  with  a  woman's  quickness, 
the  real  meaning  of  his  distant  allusions.  Her 
young  heart  trembled,  and  beat  quickly  and 
heavily  against  her  bosom, — she  felt  agitated, 
but  it  was  with  a  joyful  feeling,  mingled,  it  is 
true,  with  doubt  and  fear,  and  an  indistinct  per- 
ception of  wrong.  More  and  more  direct  did 
he  become  in  his  allusions,  until,  at  last,  he  ven- 
tured to  tell  her,  in  terms  that  could  not  be  mis- 
taken, that  until  he  had  seen  her,  he  Lad  never 
felt  a  preference  for  any  particular  woman. 

Poor  girl ! — she  hardly  knew  where  she  was, 
or  what  to  say.     Scarcely  seventeen,  she  was 


14  MARY    ELLIS. 

yet  no  guide  to  herself,  and  one  with  no  fixed 
principles  had  now  her  heart.  At  a  promis- 
cuous party  of  the  young  and  thoughtless,  she 
had  met  him  a  stranger ;  and  at  another  assem- 
blage of  the  kind  he  had  renewed  the  attentions 
offered  on  the  evening  of  their  first  acquaint- 
ance ;  and  thus  again  and  again  renewed  them, 
until,  finally,  he  had  declared  himself  her  lover, 
and  was,  without  hesitation,  reflection,  or  con- 
sultation, accepted ! 

In  this  brief  relation,  how  many  a  thought- 
less though  innocent  girl's  history  can  be  traced. 
Does  it  not  seem  strange  that  parents — parents 
who  love  their  children  with  the  most  devoted 
affection,  will  allow  their  daughters,  young  girls 
from  sixteen  to  twenty,  unacquainted  with  the 
world  and  unsuspecting,  to  mingle,  unattended 
by  any  one  to  whisper  a  friendly  caution,  in 
scenes  of  which  the  imperfect  sketch  just  given; 
is  but  a  faint  picture  !  It  is  strange,  but  alas  ! 
how  true.  Who  does  not  remember  the  vision 
of  some  sweet  young  face  that  has  dawned  upon 
him  amid  the  crowd  of  the  thoughtless  and  the 
gay  ?  How  the  wonder  arose  in  the  mind  why 
she  was  there,  who  seemed  less  a  woman  than 
an  angel  ?  How  the  lovely  face  grew  familiar, 
and  how  a  sweet  young  voice  thrilled  on  the  ear 


MARY    ELLIS.  15 

with  a  strange  but  pleasant  music  ?  Months 
would  pass  away,  and  at  last  she  would  be 
missed  from  the  gay  circles,  and  to  the  inquiry, 
would  be  answered,  she  has  married  the  dash- 
ing young  W — ,  or  the  idle  spendthrift  Y — . 
At  once,  she  is  consigned  to  forgetfulness.  But 
after  the  lapse  of  a  few  brief  years,  you  meet 
hsr,  perchance  on  the  street,  perchance  at  some 
friend's,  a  sad,  pale,  sorrow-stricken  creature, 
the  miserable  wreck  of  her  who  once  glanced 
before  your  eyes  like  a  being  from  another 
world. 

All  large  parties,  especially  those  into  which 
a  particular  station  in  life,  and  not  character, 
becomes  the  passport,  are  dangerous  places  for 
young  girls.  It  makes  little  difference  whether 
the  social  grade,  so  called,  be  the  lower,  the 
middle,  or  the  highest,  unless  character  and 
intellect  form  the  standard  of  admission.  Why 
will  parents  shut  their  eyes  to  this  fact  ? 

How  shall  we  introduce  our  daughters  into 
company  ?  asks  an  intelligent  person,  who,  in 
the  main,  has  correct  views.  I  will  tell  you. 
No  longer  indulge  a  selfish  and  recluse,  spirit. 
Because  you  are  married  and  have  a  family,  it 
is  ho  reason  why  you  shouid  shut  yourself  out 
from  the  world.  Do  not,  however,  pass  from 


MARY    ELLIS. 

the  extreme  of  seclusion,  to  the  other  extreme 
of  fashionable  party-going.  But  endeavor  to 
form  a  small  social  circle  of  those  who  have 
moral  worth  and  intelligence.  Cultivate  a  feel- 
ing of  goodwill  towards  each  member  of  this 
circle,  and  endeavor  to  introduce  a  oneness  of 
social  aim,  that  you  may  all  be  as  one.  Into 
this  circle,  introduce  your  sons  and  your  daugh- 
ters. Let  a  want  of  moral  principle  always 
exclude  from  admission,  even  if  it  cut  off  some 
of  the  members  of  families  who  formed  a  part 
of  the  circle.  You  will  not  only  by  this  course, 
cease  to  live  a  life  of  selfish  seclusion,  but  you 
will  diffuse  around  you  a  pure  moral  atmo- 
sphere ;  and  one  which  your  own  children  may 
breathe  with  healthy  enjoyment. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ONE   OF   ITS  CONSEQUENCES. 

THE  hours  passed  heavily  away ;  and  long 
after  the  clock  had  struck  twelve,  did  the  mother 
and  father  wait  in  anxious  suspense  for  the  re- 
turn of  their  child.  The  next  hour  had  nearly 
closed,  when  Mary  came  home,  in  company 
with  Morrison.  The  quick  ears  of  the  parents, 


MART    ELLIS.  17 

soon  detected  the  low  murmur  of  their  voices, 
as  they  lingered  for  some  time  at  the  door,  to 
say  their  last  words  over  and  over  again.  Mrs. 
Ellis'  anxieties  had  been  so  keenly  felt,  that 
she  could  not  sit  quietly  and  hear  the  sound  of 
Mary's  voice  in  conversation  with  one  who  was 
to  her  a  stranger,  and  that,  too,  at  the  hour  of 
midnight.  She  went  at  once  to  the  door,  and 
as  she  turned  the  key,  Morrison  bade  Mary  a 
hasty  good-bye,  and  was  out  of  sight  by  the 
time  the  door  was  fairly  opened. 

The  parents  asked  Mary  no  qi  estions  then, 
nor  remarked  upon  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  but 
they  noticed,  with  a  new  and  keen  sensation  of 
pain  that  in  her  eye  was  an  expression  hereto- 
fore K  Danger  in  that  mirror  of  the  thoughts 
and  feelings.  Mary  slept  as  little  that  night  as 
did  her  parents.  But  how  different  were  their 
thoughts.  Towards  day  she  fell  into  a  troubled 
sleep,  and  dreamed  that  one  with  the  counte- 
nance of  Morrison,  though  brilliant  and  super- 
human in  its  expression,  had  called  far  her  at 
her  mother's  to  ride  into  the  country  ;  and  that 
she  had  accompanied  him,  in  simple  confi- 
dence. But  that  after  he  had  taken  her  far 
away  from  the  sight  of  any  habitations,  his 
face  suddenly  changed  to  that  of  a  d*  ""'on.  and 
I  2* 


18  MARY    ELLI  S. 

while  he  was  in  the  act  of  dashing  her  shrnk- 
ing  form  over  an  immense  precipice,  she  awoke 
in  terror. 

On  the  next  morning,  Mary's  appearance 
added  another  weight  to  the  burden  that  was 
resting  upon  the  feelings  of  her  mother.  But 
neither  of  her  parents  through  the  day,  for  rea- 
sons weighing  with  themselves  alone,  made  any 
allusion  to  the  peculiar  emotions,  which  had 
agitated  their  bosoms. 

On  the  second  evening  after  the  party,  Mor- 
rison called,  and  after  a  formal  introduction  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ellis,  spent  a  few  hours  in  alter- 
nate conversation  with  them  and  Mary.  How 
different  were  the  impressions  made  on  the 
minds  of  the  parents  and  child.  The  former 
felt  a  strong  dislike  to  him,  from  his  own  exhi- 
bition of  himself;  while  the  latter,  looking  at 
him  through  a  different  medium,  found  some 
new  cause  for  admiration  in  every  word  and  in 

(  every  movement.    Which  does  the  reader  ima- 

gine were  capable  of  forming  the  most  rational 
judgment — the  parents  or  the  child  ?  But  let 

<  the  sequel  show. 

For  some  weeks,  Mary  hid  in  her  own  bosom 
the  secret  that  Morrison  had  formally  declared 
himself  her  lover,  and  that  she  had  not  dis- 


MART    ELLIS.  19 

couraged  his  preference.  But  the  time  soon 
came  to  reveal  all. 

One  evening,  when  Mary  was  dressing  to  go 
to  a  party,  the  attendance  on  which  had  been 
partially  and  mildly  opposed  by  her  parents, 
her  mother  asked  her  if  she  were  going  before 
night.  She  replied  that  she  was  not,  that  Mr. 
Morrison  was  going  to  call  for  her. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  this  Mr. 
Morrison,  Mary  ?"  inquired  her  mother,  in  a 
serious  tone  of  voice. 

"  O  yes,  ma'am,  I  know  a  good  deal  about 
him." 

"  Well,  Mary,  I  should  like  to  hear  what  you 
do  know  about  him  ;  for  I  think  one  so  young 
as  you  should  be  sure  of  the  real  character  of 
the  man  you  allow  to  keep  your  company." 

"  Why,  mother,  1  know  he  is  a  very  fine 
young  man.  His  manners,  his  appearance,— 
all,  show  him  to  be  a  gentleman." 

"Older  heads  than  yours  have  erred,  my 
child,  and  older  eyes  been  deceived.  Have  you 
no  further  evidence  than  your  own  observa- 
tion ?" 

"  Why,  every  body  likes  him.  Mary  Jones 
is  jealous  enough  of  his  attentions  to  me  ;  and 
Jane  Wi/liams  said  no  longer  ago  than  Thurs- 


MARY    ELLIS. 

day,  that  I  was  a  forward  chit,  and  all  because 
Mr.  Morrison  took  but  little  notice  of  her,  while 
he  kept  with  me  nearly  the  whole  of  the  even- 
ing." 

"My  dear  child,  that  is  all  of  no  account. 
The  preference  of  Mary  Jones  or  Jane  Wil- 
liams to  any  one,  is  no  argument  to  prove  his 
worth.  I  am  not  at  all  prepossessed  in  favor  of 
Mr.  Morrison  ;  and  neither  is  your  father.  We 
can  see  deeper  into  his  real  character  than  you 
can.  He  is  selfish,  and  wants  stability  and 
firmness.  Unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  the 
woman  who  marries  him  will  eat  her  bread  in 
oitterness  of  spirit." 

"  Oh  mother  !  mother  !  how  can  you  talk 
so?"  said  Mary,  bursting  into  tears.  "You 
have  entirely  misapprehended  his  character. 
I  am  sure  he  is  the  reverse  of  all  you  have 
thought  him." 

Mrs.  Ellis  was  truly  alarmed  at  this  exhibi- 
tion of  feeling.  She  had  spoken  to  guard  her 
daughter  against  allowing  her  affections  to  be 
influenced  by  a  stranger,  whose  worth,  and  fix- 
edness of  character  she  suspected,  and  lo  !  the 
fact  that  those  alfections  were  already  deeply 
interested,  was  too  plainly  manifest.  The  em- 
barrassed silence  that  ensued,  told  that  the 


MART    EL  LIB  21 

mother's  perception  of  a  right  course  of  action 
was,  for  a  time,  perfectly  clouded.  She  at 

I  length  said — 

"  Mary,  I  see  too  plainly  that  you  have  un- 

\  wisely  suffered  yourself  to  indulge  an  unduo 

preference  for  a  stranger,  without  letting  yuur 
mother,  your  only  safe  adviser,  know  of  such  a 
preference.  Your  own  better  judgment  tells 
you  that  in  this  you  were  wrong.  Your  pain 
of  mind  this  evening — your  tears,  show  that 
you  have  an  internal  conviction  of  wrong ;  for 
pain  never  succeeds  a  right  action.  Now, 
my  child,  what  course  is  left  for  you  ?  Why, 
this  plain  and  simple  one.  Pause  and  reflect. 
Do  not  go  out  to-night.  The  matter  under  con- 
sideration is  one  that  will  affect  for  good  or  evil, 
for  happiness  or  misery,  your  whole  life  ;  and, 
surely,  one  evening's  privation  were  a  small 
sacrifice  to  make  where  such  great  interests  are 
involved." 

Mary  did^not  reply  for  some  time.  But  there 
was  an  evident  struggle  between  inclination  and 
duty.  There  was  something  so  reasonable  in 
her  mother's  appeal  to  her,  that  it  seemed 
almost  like  madness,  even  in  her  own  view  of 
the  case,  to  go  in  opposition  to  it.  But  when 
the  image  of  Morrison  came  up  before  her  mind. 


22  MART    ELLIS. 

and  she  saw  him  disappointed  at  not  finding  her 
ready  to  accompany  him,  she  hesitated,  wavered, 
and  at  last  said — 

"  Mother,  indeed  you  are  too  serious  in  this 
matter.  I  am  sure  you  have  mistaken  the  cha- 
racter of  Mr.  Morrison  altogether.  I  have  seen 
more  of  him  than  you  have,  and  I  know  you 
are  mistaken.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  cause  for 
concern  on  your  part,  and  none,  why  I  should 
not  go  to  the  party  to-night.  I  should  like  to 
go  very  much,  and  will  be  expected.  Do,  mo- 
ther, lay  aside  your  objections.  I  don't  want  to 
go  against  your  consent." 

(( I  cannot  lay  aside  objections  founded  on 
such  serious  considerations.  But  I  will  not 
command  you  to  stay  at  home.  You  can  go  to- 
night. But  you  must  expect,  hereafter,  that 
both  your  father  and  myself  will  think  it  our 
duty  to  require  you  to  mingle  less  frequently  in 
these  parties  of  idleness  and  dissipation." 

With  a  heavy  heart  Mary  made  her  arrange- 
ments for  going  to  the  party  that  evening.  And 
with  a  heart  much  heavier,  did  her  mother 
observe  the  preparations.  Knowing  that  Mor- 
rison's reception  on  that  evening  could  not,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  be  very  cordial,  she  got  all 
ready  to  go  before  the  hour  when  he  should  call. 


MART    ELLIS. 


and  knowing  his  knock,  she  met  him  at  the 
door  dressed  to  go  out. 

Morrison  soon  discovered  that  all  was  not 
right,  and  to  his  repeated  question  as  to  what 
troubled  her,  she  at  length  mentioned  to  him 
the  objections  of  her  mother. 

"  That  is  generally  the  way,"  he  said,  with 
some  warmth, — "  with  all  parents.  They  are 
jealous  over  their  daughters  ;  and  yet,  one  can't 
blame  them  so  much  for  it.  But  their  jealousy 
is  always  capricious  and  unreasonable.  I  be- 
lieve no  one  can  allege  anything  against  rr  •/ 
character.  I  am  sure  I  am  willing  to  challen^  -i 
the  world  to  produce  a  dishonorable  actioi 
against  me." 

"  I  never  doubted  you,  Mr.  Morrison,  and 
never  will,"  replied  Mary,  earnestly. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  confidence,"  said  he, 
in  a  tender  tone,  pressing  her  hand  within  his. 
11  You  shall  never  have  cause  to  repent." 

"But  I  fear,"  said  Mary,  "  that  my  parents 
will  positively  object  to  our  keeping  company. 
Would  it  not  be  best  for  you  to  go  at  once  to 
my  father,  and  seek  his  approbation  ?' ' 

"  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  beg  him  to 
think  well  of  me.  If  he  have  unfounded  pre- 
mdices  against  me,  I  am  the  one  to  complain 


24  MARY    ELLIS. 

>plf  rnfianlv  fr>» 


of  injustice,  and  not  the  one  to  seek  meanly  for 


favor." 

"  But,  is  he  not  my  father  ?"  asked  his  com- 
panion, roused  for  a  moment  to  a  proper  sense 
of  her  lover's  ungenerous  remark. 

"  True  ! — true  !  But  I  never  could  seek  the 
favor  of  any  one — much  less  where  an  ill- 
founded  prejudice  was  entertained  against  me." 

"  I  am  still  unconvinced,"  said  Mary.  "  A 
parent  has  a  right  to  be  consulted  in  regard  to 
the  disposal  of  his  daughter's  hand.  And,  even 
if  he  have  a  prejudice  against  the  person,  and 
the  prejudice  be  without  foundation,  it  can  easily 
be  removed ;  and  steps  should  at  once  be  taken 
to  have  it  removed.  A  child  cannot  be  happy 
if  her  parents  object  to  her  marriage." 

"  There  may  be  some  truth  in  what  you  say," 
i  was  the  modified  reply  of  Morrison,  who,  as  he 

really  loved,  or  thought  that  he  loved,  Mary, 
had  no  idea  of  offending  her.  "  And  if  you 
really  think  that  I  had  better  see  your  father, 
why  I  suppose  I  must  do  so." 

u  Certainly,  I  see  no  other  right  course,"  was 
Mary's  answer. 

Their  conversation  gradually  changed  from 
this  unpleasant  subject,  and  by  the  time  they 
had  reached  the  house  where  they  were  to 


MARY    ELLIS.  25 

spend  the  evening,  Mary  was  listening  with  a 
pleasant  thrill  of  delight  to  the  honeyed  words 
of  affection,  stealing  into  her  ear  like  refreshing 
dews  into  the  cup  of  the  half  closed  violet. 

In  a  few  evenings  after,  Morrison  called  at 
the  house  of  Mr.  Ellis,  for  the  purpose  of  form- 
ally asking  for  his  daughter.  His  reception 
was  not  very  cordial.  Mary,  who  knew  the 
real  design  of  the  visit,  soon  made  an  excuse  to 
withdraw,  and  left  Morrison  alone  with  her 
parents.  After  some  time,  spent  in  an  embar- 
rassed  silence,  or  a  more  embarrassed  effort  to 
carry  on  a  conversation,  Morrison  came  boldly 
to  the  point,  and  made  his  distinct  avowal  of  a 
preference  for  Mary 

"  Mary  is  much  too  young  to  think  of  mar- 
rying," was  the  prompt  reply  of  Mrs.  Ellis, 
made  before  her  husband  could  even  form  a 
thought  upon  the  subject. 

"  Many  are  marriod  much  younger,  madam,'* 
said  Morrison. 

"The  example  of  wrong-doing  in  others, 
instead  of  being  an  argument  in  favor  of  such 
wrong  being  imitated,  is  a  strong  reason  foi 
others  to  shun  a  like  evil." 

t(  We  are  not  thoughtless  in  regard  to  our 
(lane-liter,  Mr.  Morrison,"  said  Mr.  Ellis,  having 


26  MARY    ELLIS. 

now  sufficiently  gathered  his  thoughts  into  form 
as  to  allow  him  to  take  a  part — "  and  we  have 
long  since  made  up  our  minds,  neither  to  con- 
sent to  a  very  early  marriage,  nor  to  approve  of 
a  union  with  a  stranger." 

"  Your  rule,  Mr.  Ellis,  may  be,  as  a  general 
thing,  a  good  one,"  replied  Morrison,  "  but  no 
rule  can  apply  to  all  cases.  Yet  even  if  I  am, 
to  a  certain  degree,  a  stranger  to  you,  still  I  am 
known  in  this  city,  and  I  can  readily  be  inquired 
after." 

Mr.  Ellis,  who  had  already  made  sufficient 
inquiries  to  convince  him  that  Morrison  was  no 
suitable  companion  for  Mary,  now  fixed  his  posi- 
tive objection  on  the  age  of  his  child,  from  which 
no  argument  could  move  him.  Morrison  was 
deeply  chagrined  on  leaving  the  house,  and 
being  forced  to  leave,  too,  without  a  private 
interview  with  Mary ;  for  the  parents,  with  a 
oneness  of  purpose,  determined  not  to  leave 
them  alone. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   WRONG   BEGINNING   IN    LIFE. 

IT  is  painful  to  record  any  instance  of  filial 
disobedience,  but  such  disobedience  did  Mary 


MARY    ELLIS. 

Ellis  practice  towards  her  parents.  Stolen  inter- 
views were  frequently  had,  and  the  two  finally 
resolved  upon  a  clandestine  marriage,  which 
was  entered  into  but  two  months  after  the  rejec- 
tion of  Morrison's  suit  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ellis. 

Mary  had  gone  out,  professedly,  to  spend  an 
afternoon  with  a  friend.  She  was  to  have  been 
home  before  evening.  But  at  night-fall  she  had 
not  made  her  appearance.  When  her  father 
came  in  concern  was  expressed  by  the  mother 
in  consequence  of  Mary's  not  having  returned 
from  her  visit.  Night  closed  darkly  in,  but  she 
was  still  absent.  An  hour  passed  and  yet  she 
came  not.  Still,  they  could  only  suppose  that 
she  was  detained  from  some  good  cause.  But, 
when  hour  after  hour  passed  away,  and  the 
time  stole  on  even  to  the  hour  of  midnight,  a 
chilling  fear,  unwhispered  by  either,  gathered 
About  their  hearts  ;  a  fear  that  took  no  form, 
but  was  even  the  more  painful  from  its  uncer- 
tainty. 

The  weary  hours  passed  on,  and  at  last  the 
dim  morning  twilight  came  coldly  in  upon  them, 
while  they  were  yet  anxious  watchers.  She  will 
now  soon  come,  they  thought ;  for  they  fed  their 
hopes  with  the  idea,  that  she  had  been  overper- 
Buaded  to  stay  all  night  with  a  friend.  Two 


28  MARTELLIS. 

hours  had  passed  since  the  sun  had  risen,  and 
as  Mary  was  still  absent,  her  father,  with  a 
heavy  heart,  prepared  to  go  out  in  search  of 
her.  He  was  met  at  the  door  by  a  stranger, 
who  placed  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and  inst  ntly 
retired.  Trembling  he  broke  the  seal,  and  rt  ad 
a  confirmation  of  his  worst  fears.  Mary  hud 
risked  all  on  a  union  with  Morrison. 

In  silent  anguish  of  spirit  Mr.  Ellis  handed 
the  letter  to  his  wife,  and  bitter  were  the  tears 
they  wept  together  over  this  token  of  Mary's 
sad  infatuation.  She  was  their  only  child.  In 
her  were  centered  their  fondest  hopes.  In  one 
fearful  moment,  all  these  garnered  hopes  were 
scattered  to  the  winds.  Filial  disobedience  was 
no  cause  of  the  profound  sorrow  that  settled  like 
a  dark  shadow  over  their  spirits.  It  lay  in  their 
yearning  affection  for  the  child  who  was,  in  their 
minds,  wilfully  sowing  the  seeds  that  would  pro- 
duce, in  after  years,  a  fruitful  harvest  of  inex- 
pressible anguish.  Unlike  too  many  in  their 
situation,  who  feel  more  of  offended  pride,  and 
mortified  ambition,  than  real  concern,  they  lost 
no  time  in  repairing  to  the  residence  of  a  Mrs. 
L ,  where  Mary  said  she  was  with  her  hus- 
band. It  was  but  an  hour  from  the  time  that 
Mary  despatched  her  letter,  until  she  was  weep- 


MAEYELLI8.  29 

mg  on  the  breast  of  her  mother.  And  did  that 
mother  chide  her  for  an  act  that  could  not  be 
recalled  ?  It  never  entered  her  heart  to  utter 
a  word  of  reproach.  But  the  shade  of  unusual 
seriousness  that  rested  on  her  face,  and  the  fixed 
glance  of  her  eye,  that  seemed  with  her  inward 
perceptions  scanning  the  future,  troubled  the 
heart  of  Mary. 

"  You  have  taken  my  child  without  my  con- 
sent, Mr.  Morrison,"  were  the  father's  first 
words.  "  But  let  that  pass  !  Cherish  her  as 
a  tender  plant,  and  a  father's  heart  shall  bless 
you !"  Then  folding  his  daughter  in  his  arms, 
m  a  long  embrace,  he  could  only  say,  "God 
bless  you  !"  while  a  tear  stole  down  his  pale, 
time-furrowed  cheek. 

I  will  not  mock  the  unutterable  grief,  that 
throbbed  with  a  strong  pulsation  from  heart  to 
heart  of  the  parents,  by  any  attempt  to  picture 
it  to  the  mind.  It  was  such  as  cannot  be  im- 
agined, and  is  never  described  when  felt.  The 
disobedient  child  had  no  conception  of  its  real 
character.  Relieved  beyond  measure  at  finding 
kindness  and  apparent  oblivion,  where  she  had 
expected  reproach,  and  perhaps  abandonment, 
she  fondly  hoped  that  there  was  less  of  real 
objection  in  her  parents'  minds,  and  less  of  sor- 
3* 


MART    ELLIS. 

row  in  their  hearts  than  she  had  Anticipated. 
Fond  delusion  !  Not  long  to  last.  For,  even 
she  soon  noted  a  change  in  her  parents,  which 
a  closer  observer  would  have  known  to  be  the 
failing  spirit  where  the  cherished  hope  was 
blighted.  One  hope,  the  future  welfare  of  their 
child,  had  been  the  life-spring  of  their  exist- 
ence for  years ;  that  had  failed,  and  now  they 
drooped  in  spirit,  and  there  were  none  with  the 
powsr  to  comfort  them. 

Mary  and  her  husband  were  at  once  invitea 
to  come  home,  and  live  there.  But  Morrison 
preferred  going  to  house-keeping  immediately, 
and  Mary  readily  acquiesced,  not  considering 
for  a  moment  how  lonely  her  parents  would  be, 
and  how  much  it  would  have  gratified  them  if 
they  had  spent  a  few  months  under  the  paternal 
roof  before  starting  fairly  out  into  the  world. 

Morrison,  I  will  merely  say,  in  passing,  was 
at  this  time  a  junior  partner  in  a  retail  dry  goods 
store.  His  interest  was  but  suiall,  however,  and 
his  income  limited.  He  had  been  for  some 
years  a  clerk  in  this  store,  and  had  recently 
been  offered  an  interest,  which  he  accepted. 
He  was  an  expert  salesman,  and  a  ready  man 
of  business,  though  fond  of  pleasure.  His 
partners  were  of  the  same  stamp  of  character, 


M  AET    ELLI8.  31 

so  that  there  were  in  the  firm  no  checks  or  bal- 
ances. They  could  make  money  in  good  times  ; 
and  well  they  knew  how  to  spend  it. 

A  house  was  taken  at  a  high  rent,  and  filled 
with  showy  and  expensive  furniture.  Little 
taste  or  neatness  was  displayed  in  its  selection 
or  arrangement ;  but  as  there  was  the  fashion- 
able quantity  of  pier  and  card  tables,  sofas  and 
looking  glasses,  astral  lamps  and  mantle  orna- 
ments, brussels  carpets,  etc.,  etc.,  it  was  all 
right.  Into  this  Mary  was  introduced,  and  in- 
stalled mistress.  How  fondly  did  she  look 
around  upon  all  these  things,  and  congratulate 
herself  upon  having  made  so  good  a  choice, 
notwithstanding  the  mistaken  notions  of  her 
parents !  But  they  saw  all  with  different  eyes. 
Too  many  like  beginnings  they  had  witnessed, 
and  too  many  sad  endings.  They  feared  that 
her  husband's  means  could  not  sustain  an  out- 
lay of  several  thousand  dollars  for  furniture, 
and  the  cost  of  maintaining  a  style  of  living 
su^h  as  his  commencement  indicated.  But  they 
yaid  nothing.  Admonition  they  knew  would  be 
vain. 

Mrs.  Morrison  was  soon  lost  in  the  giddy 
whirlpool  of  fashionable  visiting,  and  fashion- 
able ambition.  There  were  many  to  Cumt  hei 


MART    ELLIS. 

society,  and  to  flatter  her  vanity ;  and  too  soon 
the  simple-minded,  pure-hearted  maiden,  had 
become  the  flippant,  pleasure-seeking  woman 
of  fashion — a  follower  in  the  wake,  and  an  aper 
of  the  frivolities  of  the  thoughtless  and  giddy, 
in  the  next  rank  or  elevation  of  society  in  the 
plain  above  her. 

Nor  had  she  gained  this  position  without 
paying  its  penalty— domestic  infelicity.  Not 
that  her  husband  disapproved  of  any  display  or 
pleasure,  hut  because,  in  the  very  nature  of 
things,  the  minds  that  can  take  an  ardent  delight 
in  these,  cannot  understand  nor  practice  the 
gentle  and  reciprocal  virtues  which  make  the 
marriage  life  a  happy  one.  Often  did  she  weep 
in  the  silence  of  her  own  chamber,  at  the  indif- 
ference of  her  husband,  or  at  his  unfeeling 
remarks,  indulged  in  at  times,  without  reflect- 
ing, that  in  the  life  they  led  the  domestic  virtues 
had  no  time  to  spring  up  and  grow. 

The  unhappy  parents  saw  all  this,  and  it 
added  but  another  weight  to  those  already  too 
heavy  for  them  to  bear.  The  stamina  of  their 
minds  was  completely  gone,  and  with  it  was 
fast  going  their  physical  health.  They  tried 
hard,  for  the  sake  of  their  child,  to  keep  up,  but 
in.  vain.  Scarcely  two  years  had  passed  since 


MARY    ELLIS.  33 

her  marriage,  when,  yielding  to  the  touch  of  the 
pale  messenger,  they  closed  their  eyes  upon  a 
world  of  disappointment  and  sorrow. 

Roused  from  her  dream  of  gay  delusion,  at 
so  unexpected  an  event,  Mrs.  Morrison  had 
time  to  pause  and  call  back  her  scattered  senses. 
The  fashionable  period  of  seclusion  and  mourn- 
ing gave  leisure  for  reflection,  and  she  began  to 
have  a  faint  perception  of  the  ultimate  tendency 
of  her  present  course  of  action.  The  more  she 
thought  about  it,  the  more  did  she  see  her 
error ;  and  the  clearer  she  saw  her  error,  the 
more  distinctly  was  her  heart  made  sensible 
that  she  could  not  fall  back  upon  the  real  affec- 
tion of  her  husband.  This  was  a  startling  dis- 
covery, and  one  that  when  made  to  a  woman's 
heart,  awakens  it  to  dream  no  more. 

The  very  necessity  for  excitement,  after  the 
mourning  season  had  passed,  threw  her  again 
into  fashionable  life.  She  was  gayer  than  ever, 
and  as  insincere  and  heartless  in  her  fashionable 
professions  as  the  gayest  and  most  heartless. 
The  neglect  and  indifference  of  her  husband 
had  nearly  extinguished  in  her  bosom  all  affec- 
tion for  him, — they  merely  tolerated  each  other. 
Each  pursued  the  course  of  action,  and  followed 
the  pleasure  that  each  thought  best.  But, 


34  MABTELLIS. 

though  Mr.  Morrison  could  thus  pursue  a 
course  of  pleasure,  thoughtless  of  his  wife,  it 
was  in  vain  for  her  to  attempt  to  he  happy  in 
the  mere  excitements  of  fashionable  visitings 
and  gay  assemblies.  She  was  still  a  woman, 
and  a  woman's  sphere  is  one  of  affection.  She 
must  love,  or  be  miserable. 

About  this  time  Mrs.  Morrison  became  a 
mother.  A  new  feeling  took  possession  of  her 
heart  as  she  looked  upon  the  dear  emblem  of 
innocence  that  rested  in  sweet  unconsciousness 
upon  her  bosom;  but  she  wanted  one  who  could 
share  with  her  the  love  she  bore  her  child.  Her 
husband  would  come  to  the  bedside  and  look 
upon  it,  but  he  was  too  selfish  even  to  care 
much  for  his  own  child ! 

When  Mrs.  Morrison  was  again  able  to  min- 
gle in  society,  she  felt  the  same  desire  to  court 
admiration,  and  share  excitements,  with  the 
gayest  of  her  fashionable  acquaintances.  Her 
little  Emeline  was  too  often  left  for  hours  in  the 
care  of  a  hired  nurse,  who  felt  but  little  real 
affection  for  the  tender  infant  entrusted  to  her 
charge. 


MARY    ELLIS.  35 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCES. 

GRADUALLY  the  firm,  of  which  Mr.  Morrison 
was  a  partner,  enlarged  its  business,  which 
showed  greatly  increased  profits.  This  in- 
duced Morrison  to  indulge  in  a  still  more 
expensive  style  of  living.  Only  in  a  desire  for 
extravagance  and  show  did  he  assimilate  at  all 
to  his  wife  in  disposition.  Here  they  met  on 
neutral  ground — here  they  were  agreed.  A 
large  house,  at  a  very  high  rent,  was  taken  on 
Charles  street,  and  newly  furnished,  at  great 
expense,  and  little  taste.  Cards  of  invitation 
were  sent  out  to  the  elite,  and  crowded  rooms 
of  the  gay,  the  thoughtless,  and  the  fashionable, 
answered  the  summons. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Morrison,  what  a  paradise 
you  have  here  !"  said  Mrs.  Stanley,  one  of  her 
dear  friends,  a  lady  whose  husband  was  more 
prudent  than  to  make  a  show  beyond  his 
means. 

"  Yes,  we  have  every  thing  our  hearts  can 
desire.  Mr.  Morrison  never  thinks  anything 
expensive  that  will  add  to  my  comfort." 

Mrs,  Stanley  sighed.     «  My  husband  thinks 


too  much  of  his  business,  and  is  always  talking 
about  prudence  and  caution,"  she  remarked 
«  But  I  will  bring  him  on  by  degrees .  He  has 
got  ric.h  so  lately,  that  he  has  not  yet  lost  his 
old  fashioned  habits  of  economy." 

Now,  be  it  known,  that  Mr.  Stanley  was 
keeping  a  retail  dry  goods'  store,  and  might, 
probably,  be  worth  ten  thousand  dollars.  As 
an  offset  to  this,  the  single  item  of  Mrs.  Stan- 
ley's dress  on  this  evening,  including  jewelry, 
etc.  cost  over  one  thousand  dollars. 

"  Welcome  to  your  new  home  !"  said  an- 
other lady  acquaintance,  coming  up.  «  Why 
yovi  have  a  palace  to  live  in  !  Really,  Mrs. 
Morrison,  I  must  have  a  set  of  blue  damask 
curtains  just  like  yours.  Ain't  they  beautiful, 
Mrs.  Stanley  ?" 

"  The  handsomest  I  have  ever  seen,"  replied 
that  lady.  «  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  have 
a  set,  too." 

"  Were  you  at  Mrs.  Hone's  party  last  week?" 
continued  the  first  speaker. 

"  No,"  was  the  answer  of  Mrs.  Morrison. 

ef  Well,  I  am  told  that  it  was  the  grandest 
come-off  this  season.  Quite  an  eclipse  of  any- 
thing we  have  seen  !  I  wonder  why  we  were 
not  invited  ?  However,  I  suppose  Mrs.  Hone 


MART    ELLIS.  37 

begins  to  feel  herself  a  grade  higher  than  usual, 
since  her  husband  has  turned  shipping  mer- 
chant." 

"  Pride  always  has  a  fall,"  remarked  Mrs 
Morrison,  "  and  her  time  will  come  one  of  these 
days.'* 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  other  two  ladieSc 

"  I  don't  care  much  how  soon  it  does  come,' 
added  Mrs.  Stanley. 

Just  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Morrison  was  called 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  the  two  ladies 
continued  their  conversation. 

"  And  your  turn  will  come,  too,  or  I'm  much 
mistaken  !"  remarked  one  of  them,  glancing 
towards  her  retreating  form. 

"  She  is  getting  up  rather  fast,  Mrs.  Web- 
ster," said  Mrs.  Stanley;  "  that's  my  opinion." 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Stanley,"  replied 
Mrs.  Webster,  "  her  husband  is  only  junior 
partner  in  the  house  of  Collins  &  Co.,  and  I've 
often  heard  my  husband  say,  that  they  all  car- 
ried more  sail  than  ballast.  The  first  storm  will 
drive  them  under." 

"  Well,  be  that  as  it  may,"  said  the  other — 
"  I've  had  my  own  thoughts  about  her  for  some 
time.  She  affects  an  air  of  superiority  that  I 
can't  tolerate  Her  time  will  come  one  of  these 


38  MARY    ELLIS. 

days.  Ah  !  my  dear  Mrs.  Morrison,  we  have 
not  yet  done  admiring  your  beautiful  establish- 
ment," said  the  veracious  lady,  as  the  object  of 
her  animadversions  came  up  at  the  moment. 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Stanley !  you  are  always 
pleased  to  admire  my  taste,  and  the  style  of  my 
arrangements.  Be  sure  it  is  to  me  highly  gra- 
tifying. But  there  is  Mrs.  N just  come 

in, — excuse  me,  ladies,  again,  I  must  welcome 
her  to  my  new  paradise,  as  you  are  pleased  to 
call  it." 

"  Now  I  am  sure,  Mrs.  Webster,"  said  Mrs. 
Stanley,  "  that  these  curtains  are  not  half  so 
beautiful  as  Mrs.  Charitan's  ?  I'll  have  a  set 
beiore  long  though,  that  will  throw  them  both 
into  the  shade,  and  make  Mrs.  Morrison  almost 
die  with  envy." 

But  little  difference  as  to  substance  and  value 
was  the  conversation  passing  through  the  richly 
furnished  parlors  of  Mrs.  Morrison.  She  had 
invited  her  dear  friends  to  admire  her  new 
house  and  her  new  furniture,  and  they  took 
their  own  way  of  doing  it.  Some,  it  is  true, 
made  it  a  point  to  make  no  allusion  to  them, 
but  it  was  for  the  reason  that  they  thought  such 
allusion  would  be  gratifying.  Music,  dancing 
and  eating,  made  up  the  general  enjoyment  of 


MARTELLI8.  39 

the  evening,  and  at  a  late  hour  the  company 
separated,  as  is  usual  in  all  similar  cases. 

One  month  after  this  party,  the  house  of  Col* 
lins  &  Co.  failed  for  a  large  amount,  and  every 
thing  was  given  up  into  the  hands  of  a  trustee 
for  the  benefit  of  the  creditors.  All  the  per- 
sonal property  of  the  debtors  shared  the  same 
fate,  Mr.  Morrison's  costly  furniture,  and  all. 

And  now  began  the  downward  course  with 
Mrs.  Morrison.  She  had  passed  the  zenith  of 
her  fortune.  In  one  hour  her  husband  was  j 

reduced  to  poverty.  With  his  habits,  and  her 
artificial  wants,  the  salary  of  one  thousand  dol- 
lars a  year  which  he  obtained  as  salesman  in  a 
jobbing  house,  went  but  a  small  way  towards 
making  them  comfortable.  All  their  splendor 
was  gone,  and  neither  of  them  was  in  any 
humor  to  make  the  best  of  the  bare  conve- 
niences and  necessaries  which  the  eager  cre- 
ditors of  the  firm  had  left  them. 

How  lonely  did  she  feel  in  her  small  house 
poorly  furnished,  and  in  a  retired  street.  Day 
after  day  she  waited  and  looked  for  a  visit  from 
her  "  dear  Mrs.  Stanley,"  her  bosom  friend ; 
but  that  lady  had  quite  forgotten  her,  as  was 
shortly  afterwards  evident  from  her  failing  to 
recognize  her  on  the  street. 


40  MARY    ELLIS. 

This  was  a  severe  blow  for  Mary  Morrison. 
On  this  she  had  not  calculated.  Although  she 
had  been  insincere  to  all,  she  had  been  deceived 
by  the  professions  of  all,  and  particularly  by 
the  most  heartless  one  of  her  fashionable 
friends. 

Suddenly,  about  a  year  after  this  reverse,  her 
anxieties  were  aroused  by  an  alarming  illness 
of  her  husband.  He  was  taken  with  a  prevail- 
ing fever  and  life  hung  upon  a  feeble  thread 
that  a  breath  might  sever.  All  the  passionate 
love  she  had  borne  him  when  first  she  suffered 
her  young  heart  to  invest  him  with  perfections 
that,  alas  !  existed  only  in  imagination,  returned 
upon  her  as  she  stood  by  his  bedside,  and  felt 
the  awful  truth  that  he  must  die.  But  it  was 
of  no  avail  now.  The  invisible  arrow  winged 
I  its  unerring  flight,  and  Morrison  closed  his  eyes 

forever  upon  the  world. 

And  now  came  thick  and  fast  upon  her  the 
trials  which  were  to  prove  her  as  in  a  furnace 
of  fire.  Trials,  that  would  either  reveal  the 
pure  gold  of  her  real  character,  hidden  long 
under  the  exterior  dross  of  fashionable  habits, 
or  consume  the  whole  as  poor  and  worthless. 

After  her  husband  had  been  buried  out  of  her 
sight,  the  pressing  necessity  to  consider  well 


MARYELLIS.  41 

her  situation  and  resources,  diverted  her  mind 
from  a  vain  and  heart-sickening  contrast  of  the 
past  with  the  present ;  and  kindled  up  a  lively 
concern  for  the  future.  Her  little  girl  was  be- 
tween two  and  three  years  old,  and  she  had 
been  sadly  neglected.  But  for  all  that,  she  was 
a  sweet-tempered  child,  and  had  been  gradually 
winning  an  interest  in  her  mother's  heart,  ever 
since  her  banishment  from  the  fashionable  cir- 
cle in  which  she  was  at  one  time  "a  bright  par- 
ticular star."  Now,  when  her  eye  rested  upon 
the  sweet,  innocent,  confiding  face  of  her  little 
one,  her  feelings  were  agitated  with  an  affection 
more  tender,  more  ardent,  than  she  had  ever 
felt.  Her  heart  literally  yearned  over  her 
child. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

TRIED    TN    THE    FIRE. 

UPON  a  careful  examination  into  the  state  of 
her  affairs  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  Mrs. 
Morrison  found  that  she  had  not  twenty  dollars 
in  money,  besides  her  scanty  household  furni- 
ture. This  was  a  startling  discovery,  and  for  a 
time  she  gave  way  to  a  feeling  of  despair  that 
was  indeed  terrible.  Not  a  single  ray  glim- 
4* 


42  MARY    ELLIS. 

mered  through,  the  darkness  and  hopelessness 
of  her  thoughts,  obscured  as  they  were  by  a 
sense  of  weakness  and  ignorance  of  the  world, 
and  by  a  shrinking  dread  of  the  shame  and  dis- 
grace of  actual  labor  for  money.  But  no  suf- 
fering child  of  humanity  is  ever  left  to  the 
dominion  of  idle  and  despairing  thoughts  in 
the  day  of  strong  trial.  The  way  of  relief  is 
not  only  always  at  hand,  but  there  are  invisible 
messengers  of  good  ever  ready,  not  only  to 
stir  the  thoughts  to  inquiry,  but  to  guide  them 
aright,  if  there  exists  also,  even  a  latent  wil- 
lingness to  do  the  right.  Nor  did  Mrs.  Morri- 
son long  remain  bowed  down  and  hopeless. 
Gradually,  something  like  a  faint  light  seemed 
to  dart  its  feeble  rays  from  afar  off—  true,  it  was 
again  obscured,  and  all  seemed  darkness  and 
doubt  and  despair.  But  steadily  did  she  con- 
tinue to  fix  her  eye  in  the  direction  whence  the 
kind  ray  had  seemed  to  come ;  and  soon  a  light, 
so  dim,  so  faint  that  nothing  could  be  seen,  was 
diffused  around  her.  Eagerly  looking  still,  she 
could  now  distinctly  see  whence  the  light  of 
hope  had  come.  For  the  first  time  she  felt  con- 
fidence in  a  power  within  her. 

Bringing  out  at  once  her  newly  formed  hopes 

and  resolutions  into  action,  she  prudently  set 

< 

J 


MAEY    ELLIS.  43 

about  disposing  of  every  thing  that  was  really 
useless  to  her,  or  that  would  be  useless  in  a 
single  room.  At  auction  she  obtained  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars  for  these.  All  of  her 
jewelry  had  been  retained  at  the  time  of  her 
husband's  failure,  though  the  greater  part  of  it 
had  been  subsequently  disposed  of — still,  she 
had  enough,  with  a  watch,  to  sell  readily  for 
one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  more.  Two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  of  this  sum  were  deposited  in  the 
Savings'  Bank,  and  with  the  balance  in  posses- 
sion for  immediate  wants,  she  dismissed  her 
servant,  and  removed  into  a  comfortable  room 
at  a  rent  of  three  dollars  a  month.  This  was 
done  before  she  had  yet  resolved  upon  any  cer- 
tain means  of  earning  a  support  for  herself  and 
child.  But  she  had  acted  wisely  in  beginning 
to  do  just  what  she  saw  to  be  right,  without  sit- 
ting down  in  despair  to  think  about  what  she 
could  not  do. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  after  she  had 
removed  to  her  humble  abode,  that  she  did  not 
feel  keenly  the  heartless  desertion  of  the  friends 
of  her  better  days.  Sometimes  in  looking  back, 
it  seemed  as  if  her  feelings  would  drive  her 
mad ;  nor  could  she  gain  any  relief  by  trying 
to  penetrate  the  future.  Only  in  the  present 


44  MART    ELLIS. 

was  there  a  temporary  repose  of  mind.  Bui 
the  bias  of  wrong1  habits  of  feeling  and  action 
had  so  warped  her  original  character,  that  it 
was  not  now  possible  for  any  sudden  change  to 
correct  at  once  her  evils.  She  would  have  to 
suffer  much  and  suffer  long  before  a  healthy 
reaction  could  pc^sibly  take  place. 

One  day,  some  weeks  after  she  had  entered 
upon  her  new  mode  of  living,  in  conversation 
with  the  woman  from  whom  she  rented  her 
room,  and  who  had  proved  a  more  sincere 
friend  than  she  had  found  since  she  left  her 
mother's  house,  she  expressed  a  desire  to  do 
something  by  which  she  could  earn  enough  to 
buy  food  for  herself  and  child,  and  thus  enable 
her  to  leave  her  money  in  the  Savings'  Bank 
untouched. 

"  What  do  you  think  you  could  do,  child  ?" 
said  she,  in  answer. 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Winter,  I  do  not  know.  I 
have  thought  and  thought,  but  I  really  know 
of  nothing  that  I  could  do." 

The  old  woman  mused  for  some  time.  "  Ce.n 
you  sew  well?"  she  at  length  inquired. 

"Yes  ma'am.  At  least  I  can  do  fine 
work." 

"  Fine  work  you  will  not  be  able  to  get  all  at 


MARY    ELLIS.  45 

once.  But  as  you  seem  so  willing,  I  think 
something  can  be  got  for  you  to  do.1' 

Little  did  Mrs.  Morrison  think,  a  few  months 
before,  that  such  words  of  encouragement,  from 
such  a  source,  would  have  been  so  soothing  to 
her  feelings.  But  now  they  were  as  oil  to  the 
troubled  waters  of  her  spirit. 

"  You  cannot,"  continued  Mrs.  Winter, 
"  make  pantaloons  for  the  tailors  ;  neither  can 
you  make  and  fit  dresses ;  nor  do  millinery 
work — nor  bind  shoes,  nor  hats.  But  still  yot 
might  learn  some  one  of  these,  and  after  awhile 
be  able  to  do  very  well  for  yourself." 

"  But  how  long  would  it  take  me  to  learn  to 
do  some  of  these  ?"  she  inquired  eagerly. 

"  Why,  child,  when  any  one  is  very  anxious, 
they  can  easily  learn  to  do  almost  anything." 

"  Well,  what  would  you  advise  me  to  do, 
Mrs.  Winter  ?" 

"  That  I  can  hardly  tell  just  now.  '  I  must 
think  a  little  first,  and  look  about  me  to  see 
what  can  be  done." 

"  How  good  you  are  !"  said  Mrs.  Morrison 
almost  involuntarily,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears. 

"  I  try  to  do,  my  child,  as  I  would  be  done 
by.  It  does  me  no  injury  to  think  a  little  for 


r 


46  MARTELLIS. 

you,  and  assist  you  with  my  advice.  You  help 
me  by  renting  my  room,  and  thus  lightening 
my  burdens,  and  if  I  can  help  you  a  little  with 
my  advice,  why  we  will  be  even,  on  the  score 
of  obligations.  But  this  is  not  the  proper  light 
in  which  to  look  at  these  things.  There  is  no 
situation  in  life  in  which  we  may  be  placed 
where  we  cannot  be  useful  to  others ;  and  the 
delight  arising  from  the  love  of  being  useful  to 
others,  is  the  highest  state  of  happiness  to  which 
the  human  mind  is  capable  of  advancing." 

Mrs.  Morrison  listened  to  her  kind  adviser 
with  a  new  feeling  of  interest.  The  sentiments 
uttered  by  her  were  so  evidently  true,  that  her 
mind  almost  appreciated  them  at  once, — yet 
they  were  so  new  that  she  wondered  almost  if 
they  were  not  spoken  by  inspiration. 

"  You  have  seen  better  days,  Mrs.  Winter  ?" 
she  said,  after  musing  for  some  moments  over 
the  last  uttered  sentiments. 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  have,  Mrs.  Morrison,'* 
she  replied,  "  I  have  seen  days  of  more  worldly 
prosperity,  it  is  true,  but  I  cannot  call  them  bet- 
ter days.  I  was  once  as  familiar  as  you  have 
been  with  gaiety  and  dissipation :  but  it  pleased 
the  Divine  Providenc*  which  is  ever  doing; 
what  is  best  for  us,  tr  cut  off  the  springs  of 


MARY    ELLIS.  47 

worldly  splendor,  and  lo !  the  streams  became 
suddenly  dry.  It  was  a  sad  trial  to  be  forced 
out  from  among  the  old  familiar  friends  and  to 
miss  the  old  familiar  faces— to  meet  those  with 
whom  I  had  been  on  terms  of  the  closest  inti- 
macy, and  find  myself  unrecognized.  But  in 
the  school  of  adversity  I  learned  wisdom,  and 
found  comfort  where  peace  and  contentment 
can  alone  be  found  ; — I  mean,  in  a  perfect,  or, 
as  far  as  possible,  a  perfect  acknowledgment  of 
of  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of  the  Divine  Pro- 
vidence, and  a  calm  trust  in  its  operations  to- 
wards me.  I  soon  discovered,  that,  for  years,  I 
had  been  drinking  at  an  impure  fountain,  and 
that  my  whole  moral  nature  had  become  poi- 
soned. Could  I,  in  such  a  state,  be  happy  ? 
Your  own  experience  will  answer  the  ques- 
tion." 

Although  Mrs.  Morrison  could  not  possibly 
perceive  the  perfect  beauty  of  Mrs.  Winter's 
system  of  ethics,  yet  enough  was  apparent  to 
make  her  in  love  with  it.  But  she  had  not  yet 
put  away  from  her  the  strong  love  of  self  that 
had  ruled  her  for  years,  and  consequently  could 
not  act  from  a  pure  love  of  the  neighbor  at  once. 
Still  the  desire  to  do  so,  was  the  beginning,  ana 
if  brought  out  into  action  whenever  occasion 


48  MAET    ELLIS. 

offered,  would  eventually  tend  to  change  the 
ruling  affection  from  a  love  of  self  to  a  love  of 
thb  neighbor. 

True  to  her  promise,  Mrs.  Winter  thought 
carefully  over  many  plans  by  which  she  might 
assist  her  new  friend,  in  whom  she  felt  a  lively 
interest.  She  mentioned  her  situation  to  others 
whenever  it  seemed  to  promise  any  good  result, 
and  in  various  ways,  endeavored  to  obtain  for 
her  some  suitable  employment. 

"  Mrs.  Wellman  was  asking  me  yesterday, 
if  I  knew  of  any  one  who  could  do  some  hem- 
ming and  ruffling  for  her,  very  neatly,"  said  a 
person  to  whom  Mrs.  Winter  mentioned  Mrs. 
Morrison's  desire  to  obtain  work. 

tl  Did  you  name  any  one  to  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Winter. 

"  No,  I  did  not,  for  I  knew  of  no  person  who 
could  do  it  neatly.  I  do  a  good  deal  of  common 
sewing  for  the  family." 

"  I  wish  then  you  would  speak  for  Mrs.  Mor- 
rison," said  Mrs.  Winter.  \\ 

"  Certainly.  I  am  going  again  this  afternoon, 
and  will  get  the  work  for  her." 

True  to  her  promise,  she  brought  a  large  roll 
of  fine  laces  and  muslins,  to  hem,  ruffle,  insert, 
etc.  Mrs.  Wellman  said  that  "  they  must  be 


MARTELLIS.  49 

done  very  nice,  and  that  if  they  pleased  her  she 
would  give  her  a  good  deal  of  work."  i 

How  joyfully,  how  thankfully,  and  with  how 
patient  a  spirit  did  Mrs.  Morrison  sit  down  to 
her  work  !  In  a  few  days  it  was  all  done,  and 
beautifully  done,  too ;  at  least  so  said  Mrs. 
Winter. 

A  new  and  painful  task  was  now  to  be  per- 
formed, that  of  carrying  home  her  work,  and 
getting  the  hire  of  her  labor.  With  keen  emo- 
tions of  pain  she  shrank  from  the  bare  thought, 
as  it  flashed  through  her  mind,  for  the  first  time, 
while  surveying  her  finished  task.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  person  for  whom  the  work  was 
intended,  not  having  even  inquired  her  name. 

On  learning  the  name  of  the  person  for  whom 
it  was  intended,  she  turned  pale,  and  almost 
staggered  to  a  chair.  A  Mrs.  Wellman  had  been 
one  of  the  most  intimate  of  her  former  acquaint- 
ances. But  she  experienced  a  relief  of  mind 
from  the  fact,  that  the  Mrs.  Wellman,  whose 
work  she  had  been  doing  lived  in  another  part 
of  the  town  from  that  where  her  former  acquaint- 
ance resided.  Much  agitated  in  mind  at  the  | 
similarity  of  the  name,  and  still  fearing  that 
there  was  but  one  Mrs.  Wellman,  she  dressed 
herself  in  neat  but  plain  attire,  corresponding 
5 


50  MARTELLIS. 

with  her  new  condition,  and  taking  the  small 
bundle  in  her  hand,  went  with  a  throbbing  heart 
to  carry  it  home.  She  pulled  the  bell  of  a  house 
in  Hanover  street,  with  a  timid  hand,  which  was 
answered  by  a  servant-man  who  had  manv  a 
time  handed  her  to  and  from  her  carriage  on 
her  visits  to  Mrs.  Wellman.  But  he  did  not 
recognize  her,  and  to  her  low-toned  inquiry  for 
Mrs.  Wellman,  was  shown  into  the  parlor. 

That  lady  soon  made  her  appearance— 
sweeping  into  the  room  with  an  air  of  vulgar 
consequence. 

"  Here  is  some  work  you  sent  me  by  Mrs. 
Mayfield,"  she  said,  in  a  faint,  trembling  tone, 
endeavoring  to  keep  her  face  as  much  out  of  the 
light  as  possible. 

Mrs.  Wellraan  took  the  bundle  from  her  hand, 
looking  her  steadily  in  the  face  for  a  few  mo- 
ments with  a  rude  stare,  and  then,  as  if  satisfied 
with  the  scrutiny,  proceeded  to  examine  the 
work. 

Hem  after  hem,  frill  after  frill,  and  even 
stitch  after  stitch,  were  looked  into  with  a  long 
^  and  close  examination ;  during  all  which  time 

Mrs.  Morrison  felt  as  if  she  would  gladly  have 
sunk  into  the  floor. 

"  This  will  do  very  well.     I  am  pleased  with 


MABY    ELLIS.  51 

your  work,  and  will  give  you  moie.  What  is 
your  name  ?"  she  added,  looking  her  intently 
in  the  face. 

"  Morrison,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  voice 
scarcely  audible. 

"Morrison — Morrison.  That's  a  familiar 
name.  But  what's  your  Christian  name  ?" 

"  Mary." 

"  Well,  Mary,  how  much  do  you  charge  for 
this  ?" 

«  Two  dollars,  ma'am." 

"  That  is  reasonable  enough.  Here  is  the 
amount.  Come  to-morrow,  and  I  will  have  some 
more  work  prepared  for  you.  Are  you  a  single 
woman  ?" 

"  I  am  a  widow,  ma'am  !" 

"  Ah !  you  look  young.  Have  you  any 
children  ?" 

"  I  have  one.  A  little  girl  about  three  years 
old." 

"  How  long  has  your  husband  been  dead  ?" 

"  Only  a  few  months,  ma'am." 

«'  Why,  I  did  not  know .  Did  your  hus- 
band ever  do  business  in  this  city  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"I  remember  there  was  a  Morrison  in  the 
firm  of  Collins  &  Co.  Was  he  your  husband  ?' ' 


52  MARY    ELLIS. 

"  He  was,"  quickly  replied  Mrs  Morrison, 
looking  up  with  an  eager  countenance,  expect- 
ing an  instant  and  sympathizing  recognition  by 
one  who  had  been  of  her  most  intimate  ac- 
quaintances. But  Mrs.  Wellman  looked  at  her 
with  a  countenance  expressive  of  the  most  per- 
fect composure.  No  sign  of  recognition  was 
visible  in  a  single  feature. 

•'  I  remember,"  she  at  length  said,  in  a  care- 
less manner,  "  having  heard  you  spoken  of. 
You  must  find  your  change  of  fortune  rather  a 
distressing  event." 

Mrs.  Morrison  did  not,  for  she  could  not  reply. 
But  rose  at  once  to  go,  saying,  as  calmly  as  she 
could,  that  she  would  call  on  the  next  day  for 
the  promised  work. 

Mrs.  Morrison  hardly  knew  how  she  arrived 
at  home.  But  there  she  was  met  by  one  real 
friend,  to  whom  she  could  tell  all  her  painful 
feelings. 

"  You  have  much  yet  to  learn  of  the  selfish- 
ness and  heartlessness  of  the  world,"  said  Mrs 
Winter,  after  she  had  told  her  the  manner  ia 
which  Mrs.  Wellman  had  treated  her.  "But 
you  should  think  that  a  kind  Providence  which 
delivered  you  from  false  friends,  and  gave  you 
to  perceive  that  you  were  foolishly  building 


MART    ELLIS.  53 

your  happiness  upon  the  smiles  and  appioval 
of  the  vicious  or  the  vain,  instead  of  upcn  a 
surer  and  more  abiding  foundation." 

Thus  did  this  kind  friend  ever  correct,  by 
gentle  means,  the  evils  which  rendered  Mrs. 
Morrison  unfit  to  be  contented  in  the  sphere  she 
now  had  to  move  in.  And  she  was  successful 
far  above  what  she  had  hoped. 


CHAPTER  VIII.  j 

BATS     OF     DARKNESS. 

NOTHING  of  more  than  ordinary  interest  oc- 
curred, until  Emeline  sprung  up  and  verged  on 
to  womanhood.  Now  all  of  Mrs.  Morrison's 
anxieties  became  aroused.  She  remembered 
her  own  false  step,  and  trembled  for  her  glad- 
hearted  but  inexperienced  child.  She  was, 
however,  spared  much  trouble  on  this  account, 
for  one  who  was  all  in  character  she  could  have 
wished  him,  a  young  and  industrious  mechanic, 
first  won  upon  the  affections  of  Emeline,  and 
continued  to  hold  them  until  it  was  agreed  on 
all  sides  that  they  should  be  married. 

And  they  were  married.  Emeline  Morrison 
became  Mrs.  Williams.  For  three  or  four  years 
every  thing  went  on  pleasantly  enough,  and 

j 


54  MARY    ELLIS. 

Mrs.  Morrison's  heart  was  happy  in  the  aflec- 
tion  of  her  children  and  their  two  sweet  babes. 
Though  living  in  a  very  humble  condition,  by 
carefulness  and  prudence,  the  income  of  Mr. 
Williams  was  sufficient  to  make  them  comfort- 
able. But  alas  !  a  sad  change  began  to  show 
itself.  In  those  times,  every  one  was  in  the 
habit  of  drinking  strong  liquors,  and  still  there 
were  but  few  cases  of  abandoned  drunkenness. 
Occasionally,  it  is  true,  some  one  would  fall  a 
victim  to  the  bowl,  and  one  of  these  it  seemed 
was  to  be  Mr.  Williams.  Several  times  he  had 
come  home  from  his  work  in  a  condition  which 
showed  that  he  had  been  indulging  himself  too 
freely ;  and  gradually  there  was  a  diminishing 
of  the  weekly  amount  of  earnings.  Mrs.  Mor- 
rison ventured  a  mild  remonstrance,  and  for  the 
first  time  received  an  unkind  answer. 

Emeline  was  not  so  keenly  alive  to  the  dan- 
ger as  her  mother,  though  she  soon  felt  that  all 
was  not  right ;  and  many  a  tear  wet  her  eyes 
in  the  silence  of  the  n»ght,  though  she  hardly 
knew  why  she  wept. 

Ten  years  from  the  day  that  Mrs.  Morrison 
gave  the  hand  of  her  daughter  to  Mr.  Williams, 
she  saw  her,  with  five  small  children,  and  an 
idle,  drunken  husband,  turned  out  of  her  home, 


MART    ELLIS.  55 

and  all  of  her  furniture  sold  for  rent.  A  second 
time  in  her  life  was  she  called  upon  to  bring 
into  action  all  the  resources  of  a  tried  spirit 
She  still  had  preserved,  untouched,  her  little 
treasure,  now  nearly  thirty  years  since  its 
deposit  in  a  Savings'  Bank.  It  had  continued 
to  accumulate,  until  there  stood  to  her  credit 
over  seven  hundred  dollars.  The  time  hac* 
come  to  draw  upon  it,  and  she  did  so  for  the 
purpose  of  buying  some  necessary  articles  of 
furniture  for  a  small  house,  which  she  took  for 
her  daughter  and  grandchildren. 

Since  his  family  had  been  turned  out  of  doors 
and  only  kept  from  immediate  suffering  by  the 
kindness  of  a  neighbor,  Williams  was  not  to  be 
seen,  but  as  soon  as  they  were  again  tolerably 
comfortable,  he  walked  into  their  little  asylum, 
provided  by  Mrs.  Morrison,  with  an  air  of  per- 
fect freedom.  It  was  a  sore  trial  for  her  to  see 
an  idle,  drunken  man,  eating  up  the  bread  she 
had  bought  for  his  children,  and  thus  hastening 
the  time  when  she  would  be  no  longer  able  to 
meet  their  wants.  But  there  was  no  redress 
He  had  become  unfeeling — even  brutalized. 

But  a  new  and  keener  sorrow  came  upon  the 
mother  and  daughter.  All  of  the  children  were 
taken  down  with  scarlet  fever,  and  after  great 


MARY    ELLIS. 

suffering,  four  of  them  died^one  each  day  foi 
four  successive  days.  Two  at  a  time  were  these 
little  ones,  escaped  from  the  evil  to  come,  borne 
out  to  the  lonely  graveyard.  But  for  the  living 
one,  the  last  of  the  dear  little  flock,  were  now 
all  their  feelings  interested.  Hour  after  hour 
could  be  seen  the  mother  and  daughter  seated, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  bed,  where  lay  the  little 
sufferer,  eagerly  watching  every  motion,  every 
symptom,  their  hearts  now  trembling  in  hope, 
and  now  almost  ceasing  to  beat  in  silent  oppress- 
ing despair.  The  last  of  the  jewels  was  a 
little  girl,  three  years  old,  whose  glad  young 
face,  and  bird-like  voice,  had  often  chased  from 
both  her  mother  and  grandmother,  the  burden 
of  care  that  oppressed  the  one,  and  of  sorrow 
that  weighed  down  the  heart  of  the  other. 

It  was  midnight,  and  still  they  leaned  over 
her,  watching  her  dear  face,  and  listening  to 
her  painful  breathing.  There  was  no  sound, 
other  than  that  which  came  faintly  from  the 
sufferer,  to  disturb  the  deep  silence  of  the  hour. 
In  another  room,  the  father  slept  in  leaden 
insensibility.  Suddenly  the  bright  blue  eyes 
of  the  little  sufferer  unclosed,  and,  looking 
first  at  the  one,  and  then  at  the  other  of 
the  anxious  faces  that  bent  over  her,  she  closed 


MARY    ELLIS.  57 

them  again,  with  a  murmur  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

«  What  does  little  Emily  want  ?"  said  her 
mother,  in  a  tender  tone. 

"  Where's  father  ?"  asked  the  child,  again 
opening  her  eyes,  and  looking  around. 

"  He's  asleep,  my  dear,"  replied  her  mother, 
soothingly. 

She  closed  her  eyes  again  with  a  faint  sigh, 
and  lay  for  half  an  hour,  motionless  as  before. 
Again  she  lifted  the  dark  lashes  from  those  in- 
nocent orbs — again  looked  about — and  again 
asked — 

«  Where's  father  ?" 

"  He's  asleep,  my  child,"  said  the  mother. 
(l  Do  you  want  him  ?" 

"  I  want  to  see  my  father.  Where  is  my 
father  ?" — she  asked  eagerly. 

Mrs.  Williams  left  the  bed-side  of  her  sick 
child,  and  entered  the  room  where  her  husband 
was  asleep.  She  endeavored  to  rouse  him  from 
his  deep  slumber,  but  he  answered  her  gentle 
effort  to  awaken  him  by  a  drunken  growl,  and 
turned  himself  over.  She  now  shook  him  more 
violently.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  with  an 
angry  exclamation,  pushed  her  half  across  the 
room. 


58  MAET    ELLIS. 

Sick  at  heart,  she  returned  to  the  bed-side  of 
her  suffering  child,  whose  eager  eyes,  no\v 
widely  and  fixedly  unclosed,  sought  her  own. 

"  Mother,  I  want  to  see  father ;"  she  said,  as 
her  mother  bent  again  over  her.  "  Why  don't 
father  come  ?"  Mrs.  Williams  burst  into  tears, 
and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  sobbed  as 
if  her  very  heart  would  break. 

"  Don't  cry,  mother — father  won't  be  cross 
any  more.  Father ! — where's  my  father  ?"  She 
now  called  out  in  a  loud,  clear  voice — "  Father, 
come  !" 

That  thrilling  voice  was  heard,  even  by  the 
drunkard  in  his  slumber.  The  door  suddenly 
opened,  and  the  father  stood  by  the  bed-side  of 
his  sick  child.  The  violence  of  the  fever  which 
had  been  consuming  her,  seemed  now  to  have 
given  way — her  little  hands  were  moist  and 
cool,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  an  unearthly 
brightness.  She  raised  herself  with  an  unex- 
pected strength,  and  taking  the  hand  of  her 
father,  she  looked  up  to  him  with  an  expression 
that  an  angel's  face  might  wear,  and  her  voice 
that  was  strangely  musical  and  sweet,  stole  out, 
and  the  words — 

"  Father,  be  good !"  thrilled  every  heart- 
string  with  a  wild  emotion. 


MART    ELLIS.  59 

For  a  moment  more  that  sweet,  earnest,  ap- 
pealing look  was  fixed  in  the  face  of  her  father, 
and  then  her  eyes  gradually  closed,  her  mus- 
cles relaxed,  and  she  sunk  back  upon  her  pil- 
low. The  heart  of  the  strong  man  was  shaken, 
and  the  fountain  of  tears  long  sealed  up  were 
touched.  He  bowed  his  head  and  wept  bitter 
tears  of  repentance. 

No  look,  no  word,  no  sigh  beamed  from  the 
eye  or  passed  from  the  lips  of  the  dear  little 
sufferer  through  the  hours  that  intervened  until 
the  dawning  of  the  morning.  Still  as  if  death 
had  parted  the  spirit  from  its  earthly  covering, 
did  she  lay.  Mr.  Williams,  now  wide  awake 
both  in  mind  and  body,  scarcely  left  the  bed- 
side a  moment ;  but  either  sat  or  stood  near  the 
last  one  of  his  little  flock,  watching  with  intense 
interest  for  some  living  change  to  pass  over  the 
features  of  his  child.  But  hour  after  hour  he 
looked  in  vain. 

Forgetful  of  his  accustomed  potation  in  the 
morning,  forgetful  of  every  thing  but  the  insen- 
sible babe  whose  innocent  thoughts,  even  in  the 
extremity  of  life  had  been  filled  with  his  wrong 
doings,  he  continued  to  watch  over  her  through 
all  the  day,  scarcely  induced  to  allow  food  to 
pass  his  lips. 


60  MARY    ELLIS. 

Night,  gloomy  night,  with  lightning  and 
storm,  came  on  again.  Hushed  in  a  deep  slum- 
ber had  Emily  lain  all  the  day,  her  breathing 
so  low  as  scarcely  to  be  distinguished.  The 
physician  had  come  in  and  looked  at  her,  but 
had  gone  away,  without  remark  on  her  condi- 
tion, or  prescription,  simply  saying  that  he 
would  come  again  in  the  morning.  Silently  did 
they  all  gather  round  the  bed,  none  thinking  of 
rest,  as  the  storm  without  deepened  into  a  tem- 
pest. The  quick,  intense  flashes  of  lightning, 
came  in  through  the  uncurtained  windows, 
paling  the  dim  light,  and  seeming  to  play  round 
the  face  of  the  innocent  sufferer,  giving  it  the 
livid,  ghastly  appearance  of  death.  The  deaf- 
ening crash  that  would  follow  was  scarcely 
heard,  as  the  three  would  bend  nearer,  startled 
at  the  deathlike  expression  that  the  fierce  light 
had  thrown  upon  the  face  of  the  child,  to  ascer- 
tain if  she  were  still  alive. 

She  was  the  last  of  five  dear  children—- how 
could  they  give  her  up  ?  Even  to  pray  in  the 
agony  of  tried  affection  that  she  might  be  spared, 
did  the  mother  presume — forgetful  that  infinite 
Love  and  Wisdom,  that  sees  all  for  the  best, 
cannot  be  moved  to  grant  a  prayer  that  would 
change  his  merciful  and  wise  providence. 


MART    ELLIS. 

The  hearts  of  the  parents  were  now  oppressed 
with  their  own  pulsations  ;  for  they  had  almost 
ceased  to  hope.  They  could  not  hide  from  them- 
selves the  truth  that  Emily,  in  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours,  had  failed  rapidly.  Now  she  lay 
before  them,  with  a  face  only  exceeded  in  white- 
ness by  the  snowy  pillow  on  which  it  lay — and 
with  a  form  shrunk  to  half  its  ordinary  size. 
The  motion  of  her  chest  was  so  slight,  that  it 
scarcely  seemed  to  agitate  the  covering  that  en- 
closed it,  and,  save  this,  there  was  about  the 
child  no  sign  of  life.  The  pale  light  of  the 
morning  came  in,  and  as  it  gained  strength,  re- 
vealed to  the  anxious  watchers,  more  of  death 
in  the  face  of  the  hushed  sleeper,  than  the  dim 
lamps  had  shown.  Each  bent  forward  with  a 
yearning  fear  about  their  hearts — an  intense 
oppression.  But  the  tale  was  soon  told.  Once 
did  the  eye-lids  slowly  unclose — once  did  the 
orbs  which  had  been  hidden  for  hours,  look  up 
with  their  brightness  undiminished — once  did 
a  feeble  but  sweet  smile  play  round  her  lips, 
and  then  all  was  fixed  in  the  rigidity  of  death. 

In  silence  and  in  tears  did  they  bear  out  the 
body  of  their  last  babe,  and  lay  it  with  the  rest. 
As  the  heavy  clods  rattled  upon  the  coffin  lid, 
Williams  inwardly  swore  by  the  life  that  ani- 


MARY    ELLIS.  , 

mated  him,  to  be  again  the  industrious  citizen, 
the  tender  husband,  and  the  kind  son  that  he 
had  been  m  years,  now  passed  forever.  But  no 
sudden  resolution  can  change  the  will.  The 
shock  of  powerful  affliction ;  the  roused  sense 
of  evil  doing,  may  for  a  time  keep  down  the 
passions,  strong  by  indulgence ;  but  unless  some- 
thing beyond  and  above  mere  human  resolves 
is  called  to  the  aid,  the  victim  to  a  love  of  evil 
will  again  sink  back — again  return  to  wallow  in 
the  mire  of  sensuality. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

.THE  DRUNKARD'S  MADNESS. 
TEN  years  had  rolled  away  since  the  never- 
to-be-forgotten  night  in  which  the  last  dear  child 
passed  into  the  world  of  spirits.  In  a  small, 
meanly  furnished  room,  was  laid  in  her  last 
moments,  a  pale-faced  mother,  who  had  but  a 
few  days  before  given  birth  to  an  infant.  Suf- 
fering and  privation  had  worn  away  her  flesh, 
and  she  was  little  more  than  a  breathing  skele- 
ton. Seated  by  the  bedside  was  an  old  woman, 
also  emaciated  and  care-worn,  who  bent  her 
eyes,  filled  with  glances  of  affection,  upon  the 
child  of  her  many  thoughts,  now  evidently 


MARY    ELLIS.  63 

drawing  near  the  moment  of  death.  The 
reader  will  recognize  in  these  two  bnely  wo- 
men, the  widow  Morrison,  and  her  long  suffer- 
ing child.  But  where,  he  asks,  is  Williams  ? 
Alas  !  his  spasmodic  repentance  was  soon  suc- 
ceeded by  a  moral  collapse,  and  he  speedily 
returned  to  the  habits  of  a  miserable  drunkard. 
He  had  continued  to  eat  his  bread  in  idleness — 
bread  earned  by  the  patient  and  hard  labor  of 
his  wife  and  her  mother.  Not  long  did  the 
treasure  she  had  laid  up  for  sickness,  extremity, 
or  old  age,  last  the  widow  Morrison.  She  could 
not  see  her  own  child  want.  It  had  been  ex- 
hausted years  before  this  time  of  painful 
extremity. 

Night  had  just  closed  in  on  a  still  evening  in 
autumn.  The  breathing  of  the  dying  woman 
had  grown  less  and  less  labored,  and,  as  if  pass- 
ing into  a  gentle  slumber,  she  had  laid  herself 
back  upon  the  pillow  with  closed  eyes,  and  a 
peaceful  expression  of  countenance.  With  in- 
tense interest  did  Mrs.  Morrison  regard  the  face 
of  her  daughter,  watching  the  feeble  play  of 
every  muscle  that  showed  the  mind  to  be  active, 
although  the  body  was  calm  and  almost  motion* 
less. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  swung  rudely  open 


64  MAEY    ELLIS. 

and  with  a  heavy  step,  came  reeling  in  the 
drunken  husband.  The  noise  startled  Mrs 
Williams  from  her  sweet  dream,  and  she  lifted 
herself  with  a  wild  expression  and  gesture  from 
her  pillow. 

Mrs.  Morrison's  raised  finger,  and  low 
"  h-u-s-h,"  was  answered  by 

"Shut  up  your  trap,  old  woman!  I  want 
none  of  your  gammon.  I  guess  I  can  be 
allowed  to  hear  my  own  feet  in  my  own  house." 

"  O  James  ! — James  !"  said  his  wife,  in  a 
faint  voice,  "  you  will  kill  me  !" 

"  Women  are  hard  to  kill.  You've  been 
saying  that  for  the  last  ten  years,  but  you  are 
here  yet.  Come,  get  up  !  I  want  some  supper," 
— and  the  drunken  wretch  actually  caught  her 
by  the  arm,  and,  but  for  the  timely  interference 
of  her  mother,  would  have  dragged  her  out 
upon  the  floor. 

This  resistance  was  answered  by  a  blow  upon 
the  face  of  Mrs.  Morrison,  so  powerful  as  to 
knock  her  insensible  upon  the  floor.  This  was 
more  than  the  feeble  body  of  Mrs.  Williams 
could  endure.  With  one  loud,  piercing  shriek, 
that  seemed  to  embody  the  agony  of  a  broken 
heart,  she  fell  back  upon  her  pillow  and  waa 
dead  in  an  instant. 


MARY    ELLIS. 

For  an  hour  did  Mrs.  Morrison  lay,  void  of 
sense  or  motion,  upon  the  floor.  The  wretched 
father,  when  he  saw  the  awful  result  of  his 
drunken  anger,  was  sobered  instantly.  But 
even  in  his  sober  moments,  he  had  no  thought, 
no  affection  for  others.  He  thought  only  of 
himself,  and  precipitately  left  the  house.  When 
Mrs.  Morrison  recovered  from  the  stunning 
effects  of  the  blow  and  fall,  she  found  the  body 
of  her  daughter  lying  cold  in  death  across  the 
bed,  and  the  infant  under  her,  only  protected 
from  injury  by  a  pillow,  close  beside  which  it 
lay  in  a  gentle  sleep. 

Her  cup  of  sorrow  now  seemed  full,  and  for 
the  first  time  for  many  years,  all  energy  of 
mind  forsook  her.  She  seated  herself  by  the 
bed-side,  and  gave  way  to  thoughts  of  despair. 
From  this  she  was  roused  by  the  entrance  of  a 
neighbor,  who  came  in  to  see  if  she  could  be 
of  any  service  for  an  hour  or  two,  in  relieving 
Mrs.  Morrison  from  the  care  of  her  daughter. 
She  found  need  for  all  her  kind  intentions. 

It  were  needless  to  dwell  on  the  oft  told  scene 
of  burial.  Mrs.  Williams'  body  was  removed 
in  due  time.  Her  husband  did  not  make  his 
appearance,  and  none  knew  where  to  find  him, 
or  cared  to  have  him  present 
6* 


66  MARYELfclS. 

One  week  after  the  death  of  her  daughter, 
while  the  widow  Morrison  was  sitting  in  her 
lonely  dwelling,  holding  in  her  arms  all  that 
now  made  life  desirable,  the  door  slowly  opened, 
and  a  pale,  haggard-looking  man  entered,  and 
silently  seated  himself  in  a  chair.  There  was 
a  strange  fear  expressed  in  his  face,  and  his  eye 
glancing  wildly  and  nervously  about,  occasion^ 
ally  looking  with  something  like  terror  towards 
the  door,  as  if  he  had  just  escaped  from  some 
one  who  sought  his  life.  Presently  he  got  up, 
and  coming  close  to  the  alarmed  widow,  said,  in 
a  husky  whisper — 

11  You  won't  let  them  hurt  me,  will  you  ? 
Hark !  See  !  They  are  coming !  Quick !  hide 
me  ! — hide  me  !  There  now !  Don't  move, 
nor  tell  them  I  am  here  !"  And  he  crouched 
down  behind  her  chair,  in  a  paroxysm  of  terror, 
the  large  drops  of  perspiration  streaming  over 
his  face  and  falling  to  the  floor. 

In  speechless  alarm  Mrs.  Morrison  looked  at 
the  terrified  being,  and  all  at  once  discovered 
that  the  pale,  emaciated,  horror-stricken  wretch 
by  her  side,  was  none  other  than  the  husband 
of  Emeline. 

"Keep  off! — keep  off!"  he  suddenly  sc/eam- 
ed  out,  "Go  away — oh! — OH! — OH!"  in  a 


MARY    ELLIS.  67 

loud,  prolonged  yell  of  agony.  Then  cowering 
down  upon  the  floor  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands 
and  trembled  in  every  limb. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  James  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Morrison,  laying  the  child  upon  the  bed,  and 
regarding  the  terrified  man,  evidently  bereft  of 
his  senses,  with  a  look  of  pity  mingled  with  fear. 

"  Oh  mother  !  evil  spirits  in  every  form  are 
after  me.  See  !  see  !  It  comes  ! — it  comes  !" 

«  What  comes,  James  ?" 

"  The  great  red  dragon,  with  eyes  of  flame  ! 
See,  he  is  coming  down  from  the  ceiling,  and 
now — Save  me  !  save  me  !  oh  ! — o-h .'"  the  last 
interjection  prolonged  into  a  wild  scream  of 
terror. 

"  It  is  gone  !"  he  said,  breathing  more  freely, 
and  an  expression  of  returning  reason  lighting 
up  his  face.  "  Oh  mother  !  I  shall  die,  if  they 
are  not  kept  off.  Why  did  you  let  them  in  ? 
There,  now !  one  of  them  is  pushing  his  head 
under  the  door.  Be  off!  be  off!  You  can't 
hurt  me  now  !  No,  you  know  you  can't." 

The  wretched  man  sprung  from  his  recum- 
bent position  as  if  a  knife  had  pierced  his  heart ; 
flung  himself  upon  the  bed,  and  buried  himself 
beneath  the  clothes.  The  infant  narrowly  es» 
caped  being  crushed  to  death. 


Mrs.  Morrison,  whose  bewildered  senses  be- 
gan to  come  back  to  her,  picked  up  the  child 
and  ran  with  it  into  a  neighbor's.  Several  men 
went  into  the  house,  and  after  trying  in  vain  to 
quiet  the  alarmed  and  wretched  being,  laboring 
under  an  attack  of  mania-d-potu,  had  him  con- 
veyed to  the  Aims-House,  where  he  rapidly 
grew  worse,  and  died  in  less  than  a  week. 


CHAPTER  X. 

CONCLUSION. 

MRS.  MORRISON  was  now  all  alone  with  the 
child  that  had  fallen  to  her  charge.  She  was 
nearly  sixty  years  old,  and  much  enfeebled  by 
constant  toil  and  great  mental  suffering.  She 
had  no  means  with  which  to  pay  for  nursing 
the  child,  and  even  if  she  had  been  able,  she 
would  still  have  been  unwilling  to  have  parted 
with  it.  No  certain  means  were  within  her 
reach  for  even  a  subsistence ;  but  she  did  not 
give  way  to  despondency.  A  kind  neighbor 
who  kept  a  cow  supplied  her  with  new  milk 
twice  a  day  for  the  infant,  and  between  knitting, 
spinning,  and  doing  coarse  sewing  for  the  shops, 
she  managed  to  get  enough  food  to  supply  her 


MAEY    ELLIS. 

own  wants,  and  to  gather  together  the  rent  for 
the  landlord  whenever  he  should  call  for  it. 

For  a  year  after  her  daughter  died,  the  widow 
Morrison  managed  to  get  along  without  actual 
suffering.  But  her  strength  began  now  rapidly 
to  fail,  and  of  course,  her  slender  income  was 
diminished.  Little  Henry  could  now  just  totter 
about,  and  required  even  more  of  her  attention 
than  when,  seated  upon  the  floor,  he  used  to 
amuse  himself  for  hours.  For  another  year  she 
toiled  on,  but  it  was  amid  many  sufferings  and 
severe  privations.  Henry  was  often  sick  from 
his  first  to  his  second  year,  and  required,  in  con- 
sequence, the  most  careful  attention.  He  was 
now  entering  his  third  year,  and  Mrs.  Morrison 
began  to  fear,  from  too  apparent  indications, 
that  she  should  be  unable  long  to  bear  up. 

Winter  soon  came  on,  and  she  had  nothing 
laid  by  for  the  inclement  season.  And  though 
she  toiled  on  in  pain  and  weakness,  she  could 
earn  but  little.  Tea  and  coffee,  which  become 
so  necessary  from  long  use,  to  old  persons,  she 
could  now  rarely  procure.  Unwilling  to  make 
her  wants  known,  where  relief  would  have 
been  obtained,  she  struggled  on,  often  stinting 
herself  that  her  dear  little  boy  might  have  a 
hearty  meal.  Thiough  it  all  she  managed  to 


70  M  ART    ELLI  8. 

have  her  money  ready  on  the  day  her  landlord 
called.  Something  she  continued  to  earn  all 
along,  but  she  called  none  of  it  her  own,  until 
she  had  laid  by  just  what  the  rent  would  amount 
to  in  the  day  or  the  week  for  which  she  drew 
her  little  earnings.  As  the  weather  grew  more 
severe,  she  found  it  very  difficult  to  procure 
wood  enough  to  keep  them  warm.  Almost  every 
night,  as  soon  as  it  grew  dark,  would  she  retire 
to  her  bed  with  little  Henry,  to  keep  warm,  and 
thus  save  wood  and  candles.  Often  when  they 
thus  retired,  their  supper  had  consumed  every 
particle  of  food  in  the  house.  But  she  generally 
managed  to  husband  so  well  her  little  resources 
as  to  have  still  a  few  cents  left  to  buy  bread  for 
breakfast ;  and  through  the  succeeding  day  she 
never  failed  to  obtain  something  for  work  already 
finished.  So  constantly  was  her  mind  occupied 
with  the  duties  devolving  upon  her  that  she  had 
no  time  to  be  unhappy.  And  the  sore  trials  she  } 

had  passed  through,  and  the  afflictions  she  had 
experienced,  had  elevated  her  affections  above 
mere  selfish  and  sensual  things,  and  caused 
her  to  fix  them  upon  a  higher  and  more  certain 
source  of  contentment. 

There  was  one  abiding  principle  of  her  mind 
that  had,  in  all  her  long  suffering,  buoyed  her 

\ 


MARY    ELLIS.  71 

up,  It  was  a  fixed  confidence  in  the  Divine 
Providence.  She  perceived,  clearly,  that,  in  the 
Divine  Providence,  eternal  ends  were  always 
in  view,  and  that  all  temporal  affliction  was  of 
use  to  enable  its  subject  to  see  clearly  where 
affection  was  wrongly  placed. 

Thus  had  she  gradually  attained  a  state  of 
preparation  for  another  life,  by  the  putting  away 
of  evils,  through  the  Divine  assistance.  The 
keen  suffering  she  had  endured  showed  hcrv 
deeply  seated  had  been  the  disease.  Patiently, 
but  fulfilling  all  her  duties,  she  now  waited  for 
her  change. 

For  the  first  time,  one  cold  night  in  January, 
she  retired  to  bed,  after  having  consumed  the 
last  morsel,  without  anything  left  with  which 
to  buy  food  on  the  next  morning.  She  had  paid 
her  rent  on  that  day,  and  in  doing  so  parted 
with  her  last  cent.  She  found  herself  through 
the  day  more  feeble  than  usual,  and  to  a  neigh- 
bor who  dropped  in  just  about  night-fall,  she 
expressed  herself  as  being  conscious  that  she 
had  nearly  filled  up  the  days  of  her  pilgrimage. 

((  I  can  hardly  tell  you,"  she  said,  a  how 
pleasantly  my  mind  has  been  affected  through 
the  day,  in  looking  back  on  a  long  and  che- 
quered life,  and  perceiving  the  hand  of  Good- 


72  MART    ELLIS. 

ness  in  every  event.  It  is  all  summed  up  for 
me  now,  and  I  can  see  the  result.  I  know  thai 
I  am  near  a  peaceful  end  to  all  my  wandering ; 
and  standing  now  as  I  do  upon  the  utmost  verge 
of  time,  I  bless  the  kind  Providence  that  has 
watched  over  me,  and  am  thankful  for  all  the 
affliction  I  have  endured." 

In  a  calm  and  holy  frame  of  mind  did  the 
Widow  Morrison  take  her  dear  child  in  her 
arms,  and  resign  herself  to  slumber.  Sweetly, 
no  doubt,  did  she  sink  away,  like  an  infant  on 
its  mother's  breast.  But  the  sleep  that  locked 
up  her  senses,  proved  to  be  a  gentle  lapsing 
away  of  life.  When  next  she  awoke  it  was  in 
the  world  of  spirits. 

The  rest  has  already  been  told. 


ALICE   MELLEVILLE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

'  IF  I  loved  a  man,  and  Pa  wouldn't  consent 
tc  my  marrying  him,  I'd  run  away  with  him, 
that  I  would !"  said  a  young  lady,  at  the  ma- 
ture age  of  fifteen,  half  in  fun  and  half  in 
earnest.  She  was  one  of  a  group  of  three  or 
four  lively  maidens,  who  were  spending  an 
afternoon  with  Alice  Melleville,  at  her  father's 
house,  near  a  pleasant  village  in  Virginia. 

"  You'd  do  more  than  I  would,  then,"  re 
marked  one  of  the  gay  circle.  "  I'd  he  afraid ; 
for  runaway  matches  hardly  ever  turn  out  well." 

"  I'd  risk  it,"  responded  the  first  speaker. 

"  It's  more  than  I  would,"  said  another,  who 
was  older,  and  more  thoughtful.  "  If  I  were  a 
man,  I  would  care  very  little  to  have  that  wo- 
man for  my  wife,  who  could  thus  deceive  and 
forsake  her  parents.  The  adage,  that  a  dis 
1 


2  ALICE    MELLEVILLE . 

obedient  child  cannot  make  a  good  wife,  has 
always  seemed  to  me  a  true  one." 

"  Sp6ken  like  a  sensible  girl,  as  you  are, 
Sarah !"  said  Mr.  Melleville,  who  was  present 

His  daughter  Alice  had  not  joined  in  the 
conversation,  though  her  manner  indicated  that 
she  was  by  no  means  an  uninterested  listener. 
When  Mr.  Meileville  made  the  remark  last 
recorded,  an  attentive  witness  might  have  ob- 
served the  color  deepening  on  her  cheek,  and  a 
shadow  flitting  quickly  over  her  bright  young 
face. 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  all  say,"  broke  in 
the  first  speaker,  gaily.  The  law  is,  that  a  man 
must  leave  father  and  mother  and  cleave  to  his 
wife ;  and  it  is  a  poor  rule  that  won't  work  both 
ways." 

"  You  jest  with  a  serious  subject,  Helen," 
remarked  the  young  lady  whom  Mr.  Melleville 
had  called  Sarah.  "  For  my  part,  I  have 
always  felt  that  no  good  can,  but  harm  may, 
often  arise  from  the  indulgence  of  undue  levity, 
and  the  expression  of  hastily  formed  opinions 
on  these  subjects.  Some  one,  while  we  thus 
utter  sentiments  approving  such  a  doubtful 
course,  may  be  debating  the  momentous  ques- 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  8 

tion ;  and  a  half-formed  resolution  may  be 
strengthened  and  matured  by  our  thoughtless- 
ness." 

"  I  hope  no  one  here  is  going  to  run  away," 
said  Helen,  casting  her  eye  over  the  little  cir- 
cle. "  But  if  any  one  is,  I  would  say,  be  sure 
your  choice  is  a  good  one,  and  then  die  rather 
than  be  untrue  to  your  heart's  best  affections !" 

Helen  spoke  with  warmth,  and  something  ol 
energy  in  her  tone. 

"  Well,  young  ladies,"  remarked  Mr.  Melle- 
ville,  walking  backwards  and  forwards  through 
the  room  as  he  spoke,  *'  you  can  all  run  away 
if  you  like,  and  your  parents  may  forgive  you 
if  they  will ;  but  as  for  me,  my  mind  has  long 
been  made  up  to  utterly  and  for  ever  renounce 
that  child  who  marries  against  my  consent." 

Alice  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  floor  when  her 
father  commenced  speaking.  She  did  not 
raise  them  immediately  after  he  had  ceased, 
but  her  cheek  was  paler,  and  the  heavings  ol 
her  bosom  quicker  and  more  apparent. 

"  That's  only  said  to  frighten  Alice,  here," 
Helen  said,  gaily.  "  All  fathers  talk  that  way, 
and  forgive  their  truant  daughters  in  a  week 
after  the  elopement." 


4  ~LICE     MKLLEVILLE. 

) 

"  I  earnestly  hope  that  no  child  of  mine  will 

presume  on  the  anticipation  of  such  a  result. 
Sad,  sad  indeed,  will  be  her  mistake,"  Mr. 
Melleville  said,  seriously. 

"  I'd  risk  you,  if  I  were  your  daughter," 
Helen  responded,  as  gay  as  ever. 

"  But  you  would  find,  to  your  sorrow,  that 
you  had  risked  too  much." 

There  was  an  air  of  seriousness  about  Mr. 
Melleville's  manner  that  was  felt  by  the  young 
ladies ;  and  Helen,  among  the  rest,  finding  her- 
self oppressed  by  it,  did  not  reply,  nor  did  any 
one  allude  further  to  the  subject. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  in  which 
this  conversation  occurred,  Alice  stole  quietly 
from  her  father's  house,  and  passing  through 
the  garden,  came  to  a  pleasant  lawn,  which 
was  concealed  by  a  few  trees,  from  the  view  ot 
any  one  in  the  dwelling.  Here  she  paused 
timidly,  and  looked  eagerly  around. 

Brightly  the  moonbeams  fell  upon  her  snowy 
garments,  and  sweet,  innocent  face.  Could 
there  be  thoughts  other  than  pure  and  inno- 
cent, and  obedient  ones  beneath  that  lovely 
countenance  ?  But  on  so  sad  a  thought  as  that 
ore  will  not  dwell.  For  more  than  a  minute 


ALICE     MELLEVILLE.  5 

she  waited  just  upon  the  edge  of  the  lawn,  look- 
ing and  listening  with  earnest  attention. 

"  He  promised — "  just  passed,  murmuringly, 
her  lips,  when  a  quick  step  caught  her  ear. 

"Alice,  dear  Alice!"  said  a  young  man, 
bounding  to  her  side,  and  catching  hold  of  her 
hand,  while  he  pressed  his  lips  fondly  and 
familiarly  to  her  cheek. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  not  come,"  said 
the  maiden. 

"Fire  and  water  could  not  have  kept  me 
away !  I  saw  you  the  moment  you  left  the 
house,  and  my  eye  was  on  you  at  every  step. 
I  think  of  only  you,  and  am  happy  only  in 
your  presence.  How  cruel  is  the  fate  that  in- 
terposes such  barriers  between  us !" 

"  Cruel  indeed !"  sighed  Alice,  leaning  trust- 
ingly upon  the  arm  through  which  she  had 
drawn  her  own. 

"Is  there  any  hope  that  your  father  will 
think  more  kindly  of  me,  Alice  ?" 

"  I  fear  not,  William,"  Alice  replied,  sadly. 

"  And  must  we,  then,  be  separated  for  ever?" 

Alice  clung  to  his  arm  more  earnestly,  but 
did  not  reply. 

"  If  this  be  our  fate,"  continued  the  tempter 
1* 


6  ALICE    Jtt^LLEVILLE. 

"  fai  tx.tter  ( )+  us  to  meet  no  more;  let  us  try 
to  forget  earl,  other.  For  me,  too  keen  a  sense 
of  pain  mj.it  attend  an  intercourse  like  this, 
when  all  hope  is  destroyed." 

Still  the  maiden  replied  riot,  but  shrunk 
closer  to  his  side. 

"  You  love  me,  Alice  ?"  he  said,  in  a  changed 
and  earnest  tone. 

Alice  looked  up,  the  bright  moonbeams  fall- 
ing upon  her  face,  and  making  perfect  every 
jne  of  expression. 

"  Forgive  the  question,  Alice.  I  did  not 
doubt  you.  As  tender,  as  earnest,  as  confiding 
as  is  your  love  for  me,  just  so  tender  and  earn- 
est is  my  love  for  you.  We  were  made  fc? 
each  other,  and  separate,  cannot  be  happy." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it !"  returned  Alice,  in  a 
low  and  trembling  tone. 

"Then,  why  should  we  be  separated?" 
urged  her  lover. 

"  I  would  rather  die  than  endure  it,  if  sepa- 
ration is  to  be  permanent,"  she  murmured. 

"  It  need  not  be ;  it  shall  not  be  !"  responded 
the  young  man,  earnestly. 

"It  will  be,  and  it  shall  be!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Meileville,  loud  and  angrily,  laying  his 


1 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  7 

hand  heavily  upon  the  shoulder  of  Alice,  and 
drawing  her  with  a  sudden  jerk  from  the  side 
of  her  lover. 

The  young  man,  taken  thus  by  surprise, 
raised  his  arm  to  strike  down  the  intruder,  but 
recollecting  himself  in  an  instant,  he  turned 
from  the  frightened  child  and  angry  father,  and 
strode  hastily  away. 

No  further  word  was  spoken  by  Mr.  Melle- 
ville,  until  with  his  trembling  truant  he  reach- 
ed his  house. 

"  Now,  Alice,"  he  said,  in  a  calm,  deter- 
mined tone,  and  with  a  severe  expression  ot 
countenance.  "  Remember  what  I  tell  you 
this  night.  If  you  forget  it,  or  disbelieve,  and 
thence  disregard  it,  the  sorrow  be  your  own. 
William  Justin  I  should  not  approve  of  as  the 
husband  of  my  daughter,  even  if  he  moved  in 
the  same  station  that  we  do,  and  were  a  man  of 
correct  principles.  But,  as  I  know  him  to  be 
a  low-minded  fellow,  of  bad  morals,  and  bad 
habits,  I  am  doubly  determined  not  to  counte- 
nance him  And  now,  that  with  my  own  ears 
I  have  heard  him  basely  tempt  you  to  forsake 
father  and  mother,  I  would  see  you  in  your 
grave  before  I  would  resign  you  willingly.  I 


8  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

bare  lived  longer  than  you  have,  Alice,  and  1 
(tnow  more  of  the  world  than  you  do  ;  and,  more 
than  all,  I  can  read  character  better  than  you 
can.  Now,  from  all  I  have  seen,  and  I  have 
sought  opportunities  to  know  him,  I  am  certain 
of  what  I  say,  when  I  pronounce  William  Jus- 
tin a  man  so  selfish  in  his  feelings  and  aims,  as 
to  be  utterly  incapable  of  rendering  any  woman 
happy.  He  does  not  love  you,  Alice,  half  so 
much  as  he  loves  my  property  :  one  farthing  ol 
which  neither  he  nor  you  shall  ever  touch  il 
you  are  so  mad  as  to  marry  each  other.  Be- 
lieve me,  Alice,  when  I  tell  you,"  and  there 
?as  much  tenderness  in  his  voice,  "  that  I  have 
loved  you  too  well,  to  resign  you  willingly  into 
unworthy  hands.  But,  if  into  unworthy  hands 
you  throw  yourself,  then,  as  I  have  already  told 
you,  Mice  and  her  father  will  never  be  recon- 
ciled!" 

And  so  saying,  Mr.  Melleville  turned  from 
the  room,  and  left  his  daughter  sitting  in  a 
state  of  mental  stupefaction.  The  words  of  hei 
father  rung  in  her  ears,  but  she  could  not  realist 
their  threatening  and  fearful  import.  In  a  little 
while  she  stole  off  to  bed,  but  not  to  find  that 
sweet  sleep  that  had  heretofore  havered  round 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  9 

her  pillow.  Once  she  fell  into  a  profound 
slumber,  and  dreamed  vividly.  Her  lover 
came  for  her,  and  her  father  gave  her  up  to 
him  willingly,  and  she,  with  maiden  confidence 
and  delight,  yielded  to  him  the  hand  he  sought. 
Swiftly  the  days  seemed  to  pass — happy  and 
innocent  days;  hut  a  change  suddenly  took 
place  in  her  perceptions.  The  hody  of  her 
husband  seemed  to  grow  transparent,  and  she 
could  look  beyond  the  surface.  The  beauty 
and  symmetry  of  his  form  became  lost  in  the 
horrid  skeleton  beneath,  that  seemed  joined  to 
a  mass  of  loathsomeness ;  and  every  day  this 
became  more  distinct  to  the  eye,  and  more  re- 
volting. She  shrunk  from  his  touch,  and  shut 
her  eyes  when  he  came  near  her,  but  she  could 
not  escape  from  him.  Even  as  close  as  her 
own  shadow,  was  he  by  her  side.  Imploringly 
she  sought  her  father,  but  he  was  deaf  to  her 
petition  for  relief,  and  turned  coldly  away 
Long,  long  years  seemed  to  pass,  and  still  the 
horrible  skeleton  was  by  her  side,  with  its  mass 
of  adhering  loathsomeness,  more  livid  and  more 
revolting.  One  night,  it  seemed  that  she  was 
lying  by  the  side  of  her  husband,  and  his  hand 
was  upon  her  bosom.  That  hand  grew  heavier, 


10  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

and  heavier,  until  it  seemed  crushing  in  hei 
chest.  In  vain  she  endeavoured  to  rise — all 
power  was  gone.  And  she  was  sinking  it 
seemed  into  insensibility,  from  a  feeling  of  suf- 
focation, when  the  door  of  her  chamber  sudden- 
ly opened,  and  her  father  came  in  and  lifted  the 
skeleton  arm. 

"  Take  me  away,  take  me  away,  dear 
father !"  she  cried,  in  an  agony  of  hope  and 
fear,  as  her  father,  having  relieved  her,  turned 
slowly  to  pass  from  the  room. 

The  sound  of  her  own  voice,  for  she  was 
uttering  the  words  aloud,  awoke  her.  All  was 
dark  in  her  chamber,  and  she  shrunk,  trem- 
bling, beneath  the  bed-clothes. 

This  strange  and  fearful  dream  haunted  her 
imagination  for  days,  and  caused  her  to  think 
of  William  Justin  with  an  affection  somewhat 
diminished  in  its  ardor.  But  the  impression 
gradually  wore  off,  and,  in  her  thoughts,  he 
was  all  that  her  fond  heart  coul*4  iesire. 


AUCE    MELLEVILLE.  11 


CHAPTER  n. 

"  How  is  William  Justin,  to-night  ?"  asked 
a  young  man,  in  a  familiar  tone,  coming  into 
the  room  of  the  individual  he  had  named. 

"  Ah,  Tom  !  Is  that  you?  How  are  you? 
I  am  glad  to  see  you !  Come,  sit  down.  You 
are  the  very  man  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with." 

"  Am  I,  indeed !  Well,  I  wonder  what 
grave  matter  our  united  wisdom  can  accom- 
plish ?  But,  as  you  seem  to  have  some  impor- 
tant matter  on  your  mind,  say  on,  and  I  will 
"Taake  one  of  the  best  of  listeners." 

«  You  know  Alice  Melleville  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't,  though." 

"  But  you  understand  me,  Jones;  you  know 
that  there  is  such  a  person?" 

u  It  would  be  strange  if  I  didn't,  and  you  one 
of  my  cronies.  But  what  of  her  ?" 

*<  The  old  man,  her  father,  won't  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  me." 

"  That  is  not  very  strange." 

"  Nonsense,  Jones  !      I  am  serious  to-night, 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

and  want  to  talk  with  you  on  a  serious  sub- 
ject." 

"  Say  on,  then,  and  I'll  be  as  grave  and 
thoughtful  as  a  judge  on  the  bench." 

"I  love  Alice;  that  I  find  a  settled  busi- 
ness." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Do  you,  indeed  ?  That  is  a 
good  one !" 

"  Tom !" 

«  Bill  I" 

tf  I  tell  you  that  I  am  in  sober  earnest." 

"  Well,  well,  I  grant  it.  But  it  did  sound  a 
little  ludicrous,  to  hear  you  assert  so  gravely 
that  you  were  meshed  at  last." 

"And  she  loves  me,  too;  in  that  I  cannot 
be  mistaken.  But  her  father  will  never  con- 
sent." 

"  What  will  you  do?" 

lt  Run  away  with  her." 

"  Of  course.  That  is  talking  like  a  man. 
And  you  want  my  advice  and  assistance  in  the 
matter  ?" 

"  Exactly." 

"  Then  I  am  at  your  service.  But,  Justin, 
I  have  no  wish  to  help  my  friend  into  a  bad 
scrape.  You  have  nothing  on  which  to  sup- 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  13 

port  a  wife,  and  Melleville  is  a  hard-hearted  old 
dog.  Ain't  you  afraid  he  will  remain  incorri- 
gible ?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  he.  No  father  can  cast  jfl 
utterly  so  sweet  a  child.  It  isn't  natural.  We 
read  of  such  things  in  novels  and  romances, 
but  they  never  take  place  in  real  life." 

" I  suppose  you  know  best;  but  my  advice 
is  to  look  well  before  you  leap." 

"  Trust  me  for  that,  Tom." 

"  Have  you  everything  arranged?" 

"  No,  I  have  nothing  arranged,  and  it's  for 
that  very  purpose  that  I  want  to  see  you.  I 
haven't  been  able  to  get  a  sight  of  her  for  a 
week,  but  I  have  managed  to  have  a  letter  con- 
veyed tojier,  asking  for  an  interview  this  very 
night.  She  will  steal  away  from  the  house 
after  the  old  folks  are  asleep,  and  meet  me  at  a 
spot  I  have  designated.  She  will  be  reluctant, 
I  know,  to  leave  her  father  and  mother  ;  but  as 
they  will  never  consent,  I  can  easily  overrule 
all  objections." 

«  Well." 

"When  this  is  settled, and  the  time  appoint- 
ed, I  shall  want  you  to  have  a  carriage  in  readi 
ness  to  convey  us  with  all  speed  to  Richmond." 
2 


14  ALICE    MBLfcEVILLE. 

«  That  I  will  do,  of  course.  And  see  here, 
Justin,  when  you  do  get  your  fingers  into  the 
old  chap's  money  bags,  you  must  not  forget  my 
urgent  demands  at  all  times  for  cash." 

"  O,  never  fear  for  thai,  Jones  !  I  can  sym- 
pathise with  you  most  warmly  in  that  matter." 

These  two  young  men  were  clerks,  at  very 
moderate  salaries,  in  a  small  town  in  Virginia. 
Their  habits  created  demands  for  money  far 
beyond  their  income ;  and  as  neither  of  them 
had  any  hope  of  rising  by  individual  merit,  or 
strength  of  character,  into  the  possession  of 
even  a  moderate  share  of  wealth,  they  laid  it 
down  as  a  settled  principle,  that  for  them  rich 
wives  were  an  indispensable  appendage.  Fine 
clothes  and  an  easy,  polished  exterior,  were 
assumed,  as  prerequisites  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  the  end  they  had  in  view.  At  a  party 
in  the  village,  where  Alice  Melleville  was  pre- 
sent, Justin  had  first  seen  her,  and  by  his  atten- 
tions had  attracted  her  notice,  and  awakened 
something  like  an  interest  in  her  bosom.  Her 
father  was  known  to  be  very  wealthy,  and  he 
was  also  known  to  possess  a  large  share  oi 
aristocratic  pride.  In  consideration  of  the  for- 
mer, Justin  was  assured  enough  to  disregard 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  15 

the  latter,  and  ventured  to  call  upon  Alice  in  a 
few  days  after  he  had  met  her  at  the  party 

"  Is  Miss  Alice  at  home  ?"  he  asked  of  Mr. 
Melleville,  whom  he  met  at  the  door  of  the  old 
family  mansion. 

"  And  what  do  you  want  with  her,  pray ?" 
inquired  the  old  gentleman,  eyeing  the  spruce 
young  man  with  a  glance  of  haughty  pride. 

"  I  met  her  a  few  evenings  since,"  Justin 
said,  with  a  bow  and  a  smile,  "and  have  merely 
come  to  make  her  a  friendly  call." 

"  Indeed  !     And  who  are  you,  pray  ?" 

"  My  name  is  William  Justin." 

"  It  is  ?    And  who,  pray,  is  WiDiam  Justin  ?" 

"  I  am  salesman  in  Mr.  Roster's  store,"  re- 
plied the  young  man,  a  little  dashed. 

"  Then  I  would  advise  you  to  go  back  and 
mind  your  sales,"  Mr.  Melleville  said,  sneer- 
jngly. 

Justin  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  off— not, 
however,  before  he  had  obtained  a  glance  of 
Alice's  glowing  face  at  one  of  the  windows. 
Its  expression  by  no  means  discouraged  him. 

"I'll  have  her  yet,  see  if  I  don't !  if  it's  only 
to  spite  that  ill-bred  old  aristocrat,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  walked  hastily  away. 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 


On  the  very  next  afternoon,  Alice  came  into 
the  village,  and  William  happened  to  meet  her 
on  the  street.  He  at  once  accosted  her,  and,  aa 
she  was  then  returning  home,  he  attended  her 
a  portion  of  the  way.  He  readily  perceived 
that  she  was  interested  in  him,  and  this  gave 
him  confidence. 

During  the  next  week,  they  met  again,  and 
during  that  which  succeeded,  twice.  He  now 
grew  bolder,  and  ventured  to  speak  of  the  plea- 
sure her  society  gave  him ;  and  thus  progressed 
from  step  to  step,  until  the  heart  of  Alice  was 
fully  pledged. 

At  length  the  father  was  informed  by  some 
one  of  the  fact  that  his  daughter  was  in  com- 
pany with  Justin  whenever  she  came  into  the 
village,  when  he  took  prompt  measures  to  check 
the  growing  intimacy.  This  he  hoped  he  had 
accomplished  effectually,  when  his  suspicions 
wore  excited  on  seeing  his  daughter  steal  ofl 
from  the  house,  on  the  evening  before  alluded 
to.  Following  her,  he  was  maddened  to  find 
that  at  night,  and  in  a  lonely  spot,  she  had 
dared  to  meet  the  man  with  whom  he  had  for- 
bidden her  to  hold  intercourse. 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  17 


CHAPTER  IH. 

"DEAR  Alice  !"  exclaimed  William  Justin, 
taking  her  hand,  and  pressing  it  hard  within 
his,  at  the  same  time  kissing  her  cheek,  "  I 
was  sure  you  would  come.  Oh,  it  has  seemed 
like  a  year  since  I  saw  you.  And  you  are  not 
afraid  to  meet  me  at  this  lone  spot  and  lonely 
hour?" 

"  Afraid,  William  !— oh  no  !"  And  she 
leaned  trustingly  upon  him,  and  looked  up 
affectionately  into  his  face. 

<«  You  may  fear  others,  Alice,  hut  not  me. 
I  would  rather  die  than  harm  a  hair  of  your 
head,  or  give  your  innocent  heart  a  moment's 
pain.  But  now  that  you  are  here,  and  as  the 
minutes  are  precious,  I  must  open  to  you  the 
principal  ohject  I  have  in  asking  this  inter- 
view." 

Alice  listened  with  eager  attention,  and  in 
the  pause  that  Justin  made,  he  could  perceive 
that  her  breathing  was  labored. 

"  Your  father,  I  fear,"  he  resumed,  "  will 
2* 


18  ALICE    MELLEVILLl  . 

never  consent  to  our  marriage.  Have  you  any 
hope  that  he  will?" 

«  None  at  all,"  replied  the  maiden. 

"  Then,  Alice,  what  is  to  be  done  ?" 

There  was  no  answer 

"  Do  you  love  me  above  everything  else  ?' 

Her  arm,  tightening  within  his,  was  the  only 
response. 

"And  above  everything  else  in  the  world, 
do  I  love  you,  Alice." 

The  maiden's  arm  again  clasped  his  tigiter 
to  her  side. 

"  Will  you  not  leave  all  for  me,  Alice  ?"  he 
now  ventured  to  ask. 

"  You  ask  of  me,  William,  a  fearful  sacri- 
fice," she  said,  trembling  all  over.  "  I  cannot 
answer  the  question  now." 

«  You  do  not  then  love  me  truly." 

The  poor  girl  burst  into  tears,  and  leaning 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Dear  Alice,"  he  now  said,  tenderly — 
"  Dear  Alice  !  forgive  me  !  I  spoke  hastily. 
You  shall  choose  your  own  course,  and  I  will 
still  love  you,  even  if  we  part  this  evening, 
never  to  meet  again." 

"  It  is  a  hard  thing,  William,"  she  at  length 


ALICE    M*,LLE  VILLE. 

said,  looking  up,  "to  forsake  father  and  mother, 
dearly  lover',  tnd,  more  than  all,  bear  up 
against  theii  anger.  I  shrink  from  such  a 
trial." 

"  But  Inis  trial  cannot  be  of  long  duration ; 
they  will  speedily  relent,  and  you  will  then  be 
happy  in  the  love  of  a  husband  as  well  as  ol 
father  and  mother." 

"  I  fear  not,  William.  My  father  is  a  stern 
man,  and  rarely  changes.  He  solemnly  de- 
clares that  if  I  marry  without  his  consent,  he 
will  cut  me  off  forever." 

"  That  is  only  to  frighten  you,  Alice.  It  is 
not  in  human  nature  thus  to  shut  up  the  heart." 

"  You  do  not  know  my  father,  William." 

"  I  do  not  fear  the  result.  Your  affection 
for  him  and  your  mother  makes  you  fearful. 
Trust  me,  there  is  no  danger  of  the  result  you 
dread." 

"  I  cannot  William,  indeed  I  cannot." 

"  Then  we  part  this  night,  and  forever ! 
Why  should  we  meet  again?  You  are  con 
vinced  that  your  father  will  never  agree  to  our 
union,  and  yet  will  not  wed  without  his  con- 
sent. Let  us  then,  part  now,  and  forget  each 
other  " 


20  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

Justin  made  a  movement  as  if  he  were  about 
to  leave  her,  but  she  clung  to  his  side. 

"  Then  ypu  will  forsake  all  for  me  ?" 

"  I  will,  I  will,"  murmured  Alice,  again 
leaning  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and  again 
bursting  into  tears. 

"  Will  you  be  ready  to  meet  me  here  in  a 
week,  at  this  very  hour  ?" 

"I  will,"  replied  the  maiden,  mechanically. 

"  Then  I  shall  be  here  at  the  moment.  Good 
night !  good  night,  dearest !"  And  kissing  her 
cheek  fervently,  he  left  her,  and  glided  out  ot 
sight  in  a  moment. 

With  senses  shocked  and  bewildered,  Alice 
stole  softly  back,  and,  entering  the  house  silent- 
ly, went  up  to  her  chamber.  She  scarcely  re- 
tained a  distinct  consciousness  of  what  she  had 
done,  so  sudden  and  unexpected  had  been  the 
result  of  her  interview  with  her  lover.  Sleep 
visited  not  her  pillow  for  many  hours,  and  when 
she  did  fall  into  a  troubled  slumber,  she  was 
soon  awakened  in  alarm  by  the  very  dream,  so 
strange  and  fearful,  that  had  before  come,  like 
a  warning  of  evil.  Again  she  slept,  and  again 
dreamed  the  same  horrible  dream. 

So  vividly  did  the  impression  of  this  dream 


ALICE    MBLLi,  V1LLE.  21 

remain  upon  her  mind,  that  many  times,  through 
the  next  day,  she  was  on  the  point  of  going  to 
her  father  and  confessing  all.  But  something 
prevented  so  wise  a  course ;  and  as  the  remem- 
brance of  the  night-vision  grew  less  and  less 
palpable,  she  began  to  think  with  less  of  acute 
mental  suffering  of  the  rash  act  she  had  pledged 
herself  to  take. 

The  time  passed  swiftly,  and  the  appointed 
hour  came.  True  to  her  promise,  Alice  met 
her  lover,  and  they  were  married. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  ALICE  is  late,  remarked  Mr.  Melleville,  on 
the  next  morning,  as  the  family  were  gathering 
around  the  breakfast-table. 

"  Shall  I  go  up  into  her  room  and  call  her  ?" 
asked  a  little  girl,  about  eleven  years  of  age, 
Mr.  Melleville's  next  oldest  child. 

"  Yes,  run  up,  Mary.  Perhaps  she  is  sick." 

The  child  returned  in  a  few  moments,  with 
the  news  that  Alice  was  not  there,  and  that  the 
bed  was  untumbled. 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Melleville  started    from 


A  I  TOE    MFILEVILLE. 

the  table,  and  went  hurriedly  to  Alice's  cham 
her.  The  child's  story  was  too  true.  She  was 
not  there,  nor  were  there  any  indications  that 
she  had  passed  the  night  in  her  room.  On 
examining  her  drawers,  a  large  portion  of  her 
clothes,  it  was  found,  had  been  removed. 

Mr.  MellevilJe  sat  down,  and  remained  for 
some  time  in  deep  self-communion,  while  the 
mother  burst  into  tears.  Of  the  worst  they 
were  both  assured.  He  loved  his  child  with  a 
strong  and  natural  affection,  but  pride  was  in 
his  heart  an  over-mastering  principle.  A  pow- 
erful struggle  agitated  him  as  he  sat  thus,  for 
many  minutes,  in  deep,  painful  thought.  Pride 
at  last  conquered,  and,  rising  to  his  feet,  he 
turned  to  the  mother,  and  said,  in  a  calm  but 
resolute  tone, 

"  Alice  is  our  child  no  longer ;  from  this 
hour  we  cast  her  off.  I  thought  her  a  girl  ol 
high-toned  feelings,  but  she  has  proved  herseh 
unworthy  of  the  name  of  Melleville.  Better  it 
is  that  she  should  change  it." 

"  And  yet  she  is ' ' 

"  Tempt  me  not,  Jane,  neither  deceive  your- 
self. Alice  has  separated  herself  from  us,  and 
never  again  can  claim  a  place  in  our  hearts. 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

Forget  that  you  ever  bore  such  a  child.  Let 
her  name  and  her  memory  from  this  hour  pass 
from  us.  We  have  other  children, — let  them  be 
all  in  all  to  us." 

From  that  day  and  from  that  hour,  the  poor 
girl's  name  was  not  suffered  to  be  mentioned  in 
the  presence  of  either  parent.  But  neither  the 
servants  nor  her  younger  sisters  could  forget 
her,  nor  was  her  name  banished  from  their  lips, 
when  alone,  nor  were  tears  for  her  strangers  to 
their  eyes.  How  far  the  memory  of  their  child 
lingered  in  the  parents'  hearts — how  often  they 
dreamed  of  her,  and  in  these  night-visions 
yearned  towards  her  with  unutterable  tender- 
ness— no  one  knew.  As  far  as  others  could 
determine,  she  was  forgotten — or,  if  not  forgot- 
ten, unforgiven. 

And  now  let  us  leave  the  heartless  parents, 
and  turn  to  the  poor,  deluded  girl,  blinded  and 
deceived  by  a  spurious  passion,  under  the  sem- 
blance of  true  love. 

There  was  a  hurried,  agitating  flight  to  Rich- 
mond, a  hurried  and  agitating  ceremony,  and 
then  came  a  long — long  pause  for  reflection. — 
The  party,  consisting  of  Justin  and  his  bride, 
Jones  and  a  young  lady  friend,  returned  to  R., 


24  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

the  place  from  which  they  had  started  on  their 
questionable  errand,  and  Alice  was  established 
at  a  private  boarding-house,  to  await  the  course 
of  events.  Eager  as  they  were  to  look  away 
and  turn  away  from  Mr.  Melleville,  but  a  day 
before,  were  they  now  as  eager  to  look  towards 
him.  But,  although  pains  were  taken  to  let 
him  know  where  they  were,  no  word,  no  token 
came  to  them. 

On  the  fifth  day,  Alice  wrote  a  tumble  letter 
to  her  mother.  But  day  after  day,  she  waited, 
in  vain,  for  an  answer.  None  came.  And  in 
that  time,  she  had  learned  a  sad  lesson.  It  was 
that  the  love  of  her  husband  was  not  sufficient 
to  compensate  for  every  other  love  ;  that  the 
affection  which  is  borne  by  a  daughter  for  her 
parents,  cannot  be  set  aside,  even  for  a  husband's 
deeper  and  more  passionate  love. — And  as  time 
passed  on,  and  not  the  slightest  notice  was  taken 
of  them  by  any  of  her  family,  Justin  himself 
began  to  feel  uneasy.  His  income  was,  in 
amount,  far  less  than  he  had  demands  for  him- 
self ;  how,  then,  could  he  support  a  wife  ;  one, 
too,  who  had  been,  from  childhood,  used  to  every 
iomfort  and  every  luxury  ?  Such  thoughts  it 
may  naturally  be  supposed,  could  not  be  *nter* 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE,  25 

tained,  without  becoming  apparent  in  some  form. 
Alice  perceived  that,  day  after  day,  her  husband 
grew  more  thoughtful  and  serious,  and  less  ten- 
der in  his  attentions  towards  her. 

One  month  from  the  day  of  their  marriage- 
criminal  on  one  side,  and  thoughtless  on  the 
other — Justin  and  Alice  sat  alone,  in  gloomy 
self-communion  ;  he,  brooding  over  his  disap- 
pointment and  embarrassments,  and  she,  think- 
ing of  her  lost  home  and  its  dear  inmates.  At 
last,  turning  towards  her,  he  said, 

"  It  is  strange,  Alice,  that  no  one  of  your 
family  has  come  near  you." 

Alice  looked  up,  while  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  but  she  did  not  reply. 

"  It  is  now  four  weeks  since  we  were  mar- 
ried. Surely  in  that  time  we  ought  to  have 
heard  from  them." 

"I  fear  very  greatly,"  Alice  said,  "that 
my  father  will  never  see  me  again."  And  she 
burst  into  tears. 

"  Do  not  distress  yourself  with  such  a  thought 
Alice.  Ho  will,  he  must  relent.  Surely  your 
mother  loves  you,  and  will  overrule  the  anger 
of  your  father." 

"  My  mother  cannot,  and  I  believe  never 
3 


26 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 


attempts  to  influence  my  father,"  Alice  said, 
looking  up,  with  the  tears  flowing  over  her 
cheeks. — "  He  told  me,  that  if  I  married  you, 
he  would  never  forgive  me  or  see  me,  and  few 
men  keep  their  word  more  strictly  than  he.  I 
am  sadly  afraid  that  I  have  nothing  to  hope  for 
there  ;  that  I  am  alone  with  you  in  the  world !" 

Her  tender  glance,  and  the  affectionate,  con- 
fiding tone  in  which  the  last  sentence  was 
uttered,  touched  the  heart  of  one  as  cold  and 
selfish  as  her  husband  ; — stooping  down,  he 
kissed  her  cheek,  and  said,  with  more  of  sin- 
cerity and  true  feeling  than  he  had  ever  yet 
spoken  to  her, 

"  Dear  Alice  !  I  will  try  to  make  you  as 
happy  as  I  can !  But  you  ought  to  know  it,  at 
once,  that  I  have  not  the  means  to  make  you  a.a 
comfortable,  nor  to  provide  you  with  the  luxu- 
ries that  you  have  been  used  to  from  childhood 
But  I  will  do  my  best." 

He  spoke  from  the  impulse  of  a  sudden  re- 
solution to  change  his  habits,  for  her  sake,  and 
to  do  all  in  his  power  to  make  her  happy. 

"  I  ask  only  to  share  your  lot,  dear  husband ! 
I  forsook  all  for  you.  Love  me,  and  I  will  try 
to  be  happy." 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  27 

Justin  kissed  the  cheek  of  his  young  wife 
with  more  of  an  unselfish  affection  than  he  had 
yet  felt,  and,  inwardly  resolving  that  he  would, 
for  her  sake,  be  a  man  of  energy  and  principle, 
he  left  the  room,  and  returned  to  his  place  01 
business.  There  he  was  met  by  an  officer,  with 
a  writ  against  him  for  debt. 

"  I  cannot  meet  this  just  now,"  Justin  said. 

"  I  am  not  a  collector,  but  an  officer.  I  can- 
not «  call  again,'  "  the  officer  said,  half  ironi- 
cally. 

"  Well !  well !  I  will  answer  to  this  on  Mon- 
day," the  young  man  replied,  quickly, 

"  I  would  advise  you  to  come  prepared  to 
pay  it  then ;  for  when  judgment  is  rendered  up, 
the  money  will  have  to  be  forthcoming.  Such 
are  our  orders."  And  so  saying,  the  officer 
turned  away. 

A  similar  process  for  fifty  dollars  was  also 
served  on  him  within  an  hour,  the  whole 
amouifting  to  upwards  of  a  hundred  dollars. 
This  sum  would  not  cover  over  one-third  of  his 
debts  in  the  city. 

On  the  same  night,  at  about  nine  o'clock,  he 
returned  to  the  store  in  which  he  was  a  sales- 
man. 


28  ALICE    MELLEVSLLE. 

«  I  have  come  in  to  have  some  talk  with 
you,"  Justin  said  to  his  employer.  "I  am  in 
trouble,  and  want  your  advice  and  assistance." 

n  I  am  sorry  you  did  not  ask  that  earlier, 
William  ;  I  might  have  saved  you  from  an  act 
of  which  it  is  now  too  late  to  repent." 

"  No  doubt.  But  the  past  is  past.  I  want 
to  talk  of  the  present  and  future." 

"  Say  on." 

"  Two  writs  have  been  served  on  me  to-day, 
and  I  have  until  Monday  to  appear  in.  I  can- 
not pay  them,  and  it  is  of  no  use  to  think  of  it." 

«  Well !" 

"  I  owe  a  good  deal  besides.  Debts  foolishly 
contracted.  Before  I  was  married,  no  one  hoped 
to  get  anything  by  troubling  me*.  Now,  a  dif- 
ferent game  will  be  played." 

"Well?" 

"  I  must  leave  here." 

t(  Where  will  you  go  ?" 

"  I  have,  to-night,  made  an  engagement  to 
go  to  Washington  City,  and  keep  bar." 

«  At  what  salary  ?" 

"  Six  hundred  dollars." 

"  Your  best  plan  is,  certainly,  to  go." 

"  But  I  have  no  money  to  take  me  there. 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  29 

And  I  have  come  in  to  know  if  to  your  many 
and  long-continued  kindnesses  to  one  who  has 
not  always  deserved  them,  you  will  add  an- 
other." 

"  William,"  said  his  employer,  in  a  serious 
tone,  "  if  it  had  not  heen  for  your  father,  I 
would  have  discharged  you  long  ago.  For  his 
sake  I  have  borne  with  your  irregularities,  and 
too  frequent  neglect  of  business.  For  his  sake, 
I  will  now  advance  you  fifty  dollars." 

"  And  promise  to  keep  my  secret  until  I  am 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  processes  from  the 
court  ?" 

"  With  that  I  have  nothing  to  do,  and  shall 
therefore  not  speak  of  it.  But  when  do  you 
leave  ?" 

»'  I  must  be  off  in  two  days." 

"In  your  new  home,  I  earnestly  hope,  Wil- 
liam, you  will  resolve  to  lead  a  new  life.  Re- 
member, that  another's  happiness  is  now  con- 
nected with  your  actions  ;  if  indeed,  anything 
you  can  do  will  ever  make  that  too  trusting, 
deluded  creature,  who  is  now  your  wife,  happy." 

"  That  act  was  a  great  and  foolish,  aye,  I  will 
call  it  a  wicked  one.  But  it  is  past  now,  and 
cannot  be  recalled.  I  vainly  hoped  that  Mr 


30 


ALICE    MELLEV  ILLE. 


Melleville  would  soon  relent,  and  then  all  would 
have  been  well." 

*'  You  should  have  known  his  character  bet- 
ter, before  you  presumed  so  far.  Had  you  con- 
sulted me,  I  could  have  dissipated  your  error  in 
in  that  respect." 

"  But  I  did  not.  And  if  I  had,  I  would  not, 
probably,  have  heeded  your  warning.' 

"  Perhaps  not.  Well,  now  that  the  deed  is 
done,  let  me  beg  of  you,  for  her  sake,  to  do  the 
best  you  can." 

"  I  will,  I  will !"  Justin  said,  much  moved, 
and  then  withdrew  to  return  home  and  break 
the  painful  intelligence  to  his  wife.  He  found 
her  sitting  alone,  and  weeping. 

"  Dear  Alice,"  he  said,  with  unwonted  ten- 
derness, as  he  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  took 
her  hand  within  his,  "  what  can  I  do  to  make 
you  happy  ?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  dear  husband  ;  I  am  happy 
now  !"  she  said,  brushing  away  her  tears,  and 
trying  to  smile  cheerfully  as  she  looked  up 
into  his  face. 

"I  have  wronged  you  much,  Alice.  But  what 
is  past  cannot  be  mended.  Are  you  willing  to 
ehare  my  lot  with  me  ?" 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  31 

"  I  am,  William,  be  it  what  it  may,"  she  said 
earnestly. 

"Then,  Alice,  I  must  go  away  from  this 
place." 

"  O  William  !"  ejaculated  his  wife,  with  a 
look  of  painful  surprise. 

"  I  had  better  tell  you  the  simple  truth,  and 
then  leave  you  to  decide.  I  will  not  urge  you 
or  try  to  influence  you.  You  shall  be  free  to  go 
or  stay.  Perhaps  when  I  go  away,  your  father 
may  take  you  home  again,  where  I  am  sure  you 
will  be  happier  than  I  can  make  you.  Know, 
then,  Alice,  that  I  am  in  debt  here  several  hun- 
dred dollars  more  than  I  can  pay.  Writs  have 
been  served  on  me,  and  if  not  satisfied  by  Mon- 
day next,  I  will  be  lodged  in  prison." 

Alice  looked  at  her  husband  with  a  stupefied 
air,  but  did  not  reply. 

"I  have  secured  a  situation  in  Washington 
City,  at  a  salary  that  will  support  us  if  we  are 
frugal.  Now,  Alice,  will  you  go  or  stay  ?" 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  Wiliam.  Why  should 
I  stay  here  ?  And  who  is  there  in  the  wide 
world  to  care  for  me  but  you  ?  But  how  soon 
must  we  go  ?" 

"  In  taro  days." 


32  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

"  Then,  I  will  make  one  more  appeal  to  my 
father.  Who  knows  but  that  his  heart  will  soften 
/  towards  me,  when  he  finds  that  I  am  about  to 

go  away,  never  perchance  to  return  ?" 

"  Do,  Alice,  do.    And  I  will  write  also." 

Before  retiring  to  her  bed,  Alice  wrote  to  her 
mother,  and  through  her  to  her  father,  an  hum- 
ble, penitent  and  touching  epistle.  Urging  them, 
if  they  would  not  see  her  before  she  went 
away,  just  to  drop  her  one  word,  saying  that 
they  forgave  her. 

Her  husband  also  wrote,  stating  plainly  that 
he  went  away  through  necessity,  and  urging 
upon  Mr.  Melleville  to  take  his  daughter  home. 

"  I  have  not  the  means  of  supporting  her 
comfortably,"  he  said  in  his  letter,  "  and  unless 
you  take  her  again,  she  must  suffer  in  many 
I  ways.  Will  you  not  again  receive  her  ? — 

Solemnly  I  promise,  if  you  will  take  her  home, 
that  I  will  never  come  near  you.  I  do  not  write 
this  because  I  do  not  love,  or  am  not  willing  to 
take  care  of  Alice.  I  should  part  from  her  with 
exceeding  pain.  But  I  am  sure  that  I  cannot 
provide  for  her  as  she  has  been  used  to  live, 
and  I  am  well  convinced  that  away  from  you 
she  never  can  be  happy.  Come  for  her,  or  send 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

for  bar  within  two  days.  After  that  it  will  to 
too  late." 

The  first  day  passed,  and  there  was  neither 
word  nor  letter,  nor  token  of  any  kind  from 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  Melleville  to  Alice.  All  through 
the  next,  she  looked  and  longed  in  painful, 
heart-sickening  suspense,  but  in  vain ;  and  night 
fell  gloomily  around,  yet  no  word  had  come. 

With  a  feeling  of  hopelessness,  did  poor  Mrs. 
Justin  prepare  to  accompany  her  husband  on 
his  flight,  for  such  it  really  was,  from  her  native 
village.  At  ten  o'clock  at  night  they  took  iheir 
places  in  the  stage-coach,  she  silent,  sad  and 
heartless.  Just  as  the  driver  was  mounting  the 
box,  Alice  felt  a  hand  upon  her  arm,  and  look- 
ing up,  she  saw  standing  by  the  stage,  an  old 
colored  servant  of  her  father's;  one  who  had 
nursed  her  when  an  infant.  She  held  in  her 
hand  a  letter,  which  was  eagerly  seized  by  the 
unhappy  girl. 

"Who  is  it  from,  Nancy?"  she  asked,  much 
agitated. 

"  From  little  Mary.  They  would  not  write, 
and  don't  know  about  Mary's  writing  or  me 
coming  to  see  you.  But  I  couldn't  let  you  go, 
Miss  Alice,  without  seeing  your  dear  face  once 


34  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

mote.  O,  if  they  only  loved  you  as  I  do  !" 
And  the '  tears  streamed  down  the  cheeks  oi 
the  affectionate  creature,  as  she  stood  clasping 
tightly  the  hand  of  her  young  Mistress.  At 
that  moment  the  driver  cracked  his  whip,  and 
the  coach  moved  off. 

"  God  bless  you,  Miss  Alice  !"  fell  from  the 
lips  of  the  servant  in  a  fervent  ejaculation, — in 
the  next  moment  she  stood  alone,  looking  sadly 
after  the  retiring  stage. 

Full  two  hours  passed  before  Alice  had  an 
opportunity  to  read  that  precious  letter,  warm, 
she  knew,  from  an  affectionate  and  innocent 
heart.  But  for  the  trembling,  eager  desire  she 
felt  to  know  its  contents,  her  feelings  on  thus 
leaving,  perhaps  forever,  her  home  and  dearest 
friends,  would  have  beep  indeed  terrible. 

By  the  dim  light  of  a  flickering  lamp,  at  the 
first  stage-house,  she  dpened  and  read  her  letter. 
It  ran  thus ; 

"  Dear  Sister  Mice — I  happened  to  see  your 
letter  on  mother's  table  to-day,  and  then  I  knew 
what  father  meant  yesterday,  when  I  heard  him 
say  to  her — '  No,  no,  no  !  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  her.'  But  if  they  don't  love  you, 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  35 

Alice,  I  do,  and  if  I  had  dared  I  would  have 
been  to  see  you  every  day.  O,  it  is  so  lone 
some,  and  so  sad  now  you  are  gone.  Fathei 
nor  mother  ain't  like  they  used  to  be.  He  never 
seems  pleased,  nor  she  happy  And  you  are 
going  clear  away.  O,  how  I  cry  when  I  think 
of  it.  And  what  will  become  of  you  ?  O  sis- 
ter, I  wish  I  could  go  with  you,  for  your  sake  ; 
I  know  you  must  feel  so  bad,  never  to  see  any 
of  us,  nor  know  anything  about  us.  Nancy 
will  take  this  to  you.  She  don't  forget  you  • 
nor  none  of  us,  except  mother  and  father,  and  I 
think  it  is  hard  work  with  them.  Good-bye, 
dear  sister,  and  don't  forget,  wherever  you  are, 
your  sister  MARY." 

Alice  sobbed  two  or  three  times,  convulsive- 
ly, as  if  she  were  struggling  hard  with  her 
feelings,  and  then  turned  slowly  away  from  the 
dim  light  by  which  she  had  read  the  letter,  and 
re-entered  the  coach. 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  tvas  five  years  from  the  period  at  which 
occurred  the  scenes  detailed  in  the  last  chapter, 
that  Alice  sat,  sewing,  near  the  hour  of  mid- 
night, in  a  meagerly  furnished  room  of  a  small 
house  in  Washington  city.  In  one  corner, 
sleeping  soundly  on  an  old  quilt,  with  a  bundle 
of  rags  for  a  pillow,  lay  a  little  boy,  about  four 
years  old.  An  infant  slept  in  an  old  cradle, 
that  had  been  bought  somewhere  at  second 
hand,  to  which  ever  and  anon  the  young  mother 
gave  a  slight  motion  with  her  foot.  And 
Alice,  what  of  her  ?  A  sad,  sad  change  had, 
alas !  passed  over  her  sweet  young  face ;  that 
was  now  pale  and  thin,  and  wore  an  expression 
of  sorrowful  endurance.  The  quality  of  the 
garment  upon  which  she  wrought  with  hurried 
industry,  indicated,  in  comparison  with  her  own 
apparent  condition,  that  she  was  working  for 
money.  And  such  was  really  the  case. 

Through  many  heart-searching  and  heart- 
aching  changes,  the  years  had  worn  away, 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 


until  the  present  time — years,  whose  h.story 
was  engraven  in  lines  of  suffering  and  sorrow 
that  were  too  visible  upon  her  brow  and  cheeks, 
and  looked  mournfully  from  her  still  bright 
eyes,  shadowed  ever,  except  at  brief  intervals, 
by  their  drooping  lids.  The  records  of  those 
years,  as  indicating  her  awakening  to  the  reali- 
ties of  a  changed  and  almost  hopeless  life,  would 
occupy  us  too  long,  and  only  add  emotions  of 
pain  to  the  painful  ones  that  must  be  excited  in 
tracing  onward  her  checkered  course.  It  is 
sufficient  to  say,  that  her  young  heart's  ardent 
promises  proved  altogether  fallacious.  That 
soon  her  husband's  true  character  of  unfeeling 
selfishness  stood  revealed  to  her  in  a  light  that 
destroyed  even  a  lingering  hope  that  the  esti- 
mation might  be  a  false  one.  His  humble  con- 
dition in  life  would  have  given  her  little  cause 
of  unhappiness ;  for  the  young  affections  of  her 
heart,  luxuriant  in  their  growth,  had  already 
entwined  themselves  about  him.  All  she  would 
have  asked  would  have  been  a  tender  and  con- 
stant return  for  the  pure  and  fervent  love  she 
gave.  But  this  he  could  not  give.  The  end 
which  he  had  in  view  was  not  realized;  and  he 
\vas  too  selfish  to  fall  back  and  be  satisfied  with 
4 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

the  wealth  of  affection  that  was  ready  to  be 
poured  out  upon  him,  when  gross,  material 
riches,  were  all  he  had  sought  after,  or  really 
cared  for. 

And  here  let  us  pause,  and  drop  a  word  or 
two,  in  the  form  of  general  principles,  that  may 
not  be  without  a  good  effect  upon  such  as  have 
minds  evenly  balanced,  and  thus  capable  of 
acting,  in  some  degree,  from  the  promptings  of 
rational  thought.  The  end  which  any  one  has 
in  view,  will,  of  course,  influence,  modify,  and 
enter  into  all  his  actions.  It  will  govern  him 
not  only  in  the  pursuit  of  an  object,  but  in  his 
enjoyment  of  it  in  possession.  This  principle 
we  shall  apply  to  the  subject  of  marriage,  as 
one  of  the  first  importance,  and  as  naturally 
growing  out  of  our  story.  Happiness  in  the 
married  state  results,  and  results  only,  from 
mutual  affection.  Just  so  far  as  this  affection  is 
not  perfectly  reciprocal,  just  so  far  will  unhap- 
piness  result  from  the  union.  This  is  an  im- 
mutable law,  founded  in  the  very  nature  of 
things.  Whatever  then,  in  the  motives  which 
induce  marriage,  is  foreign  to  this,  is  so  much 
of  an  alloy  to  true  felicity,  and  will  always  be 
felt  as  such.  No  matter  in  which  party  the 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  39 

Dase  motive  exists,  (we  call  it  base  in  contradis- 
tinction to  the  purer  principle,)  whether  in  the 
woman  or  the  man,  the  result  will  be  equally 
fatal  to  the  happiness  of  both.  The  real  mo- 
tives of  any  one  lie  quite  interior,  and  are  not 
always  apparent  to  the  individual  himself;  to 
ascertain  them  requires  some  degree  of  self-ex- 
ploration. Thus,  a  man  or  a  woman,  in  decid- 
ing to  marry,  may  think  that  the  love  which 
is  felt  is  the  strongest  motive  for  the  union, 
whereas  one,  or  even  both,  may  have  a  motive 
so  concealed  as  hardly  to  be  self-acknowledged, 
that  leads  all  other  motives.  This  may  be  a 
love  of  wealth,  a  simple  admiration  of  the  beau- 
tiful, a  desire  for  elevation  and  distinction  in 
society,  the  anticipated  pleasures  of  a  high 
intellectual  intercourse,  without  reference  to 
moral  perfections,  or  some  motive  of  a  kindred 
spirit.  If  any  of  these  govern,  the  marriage 
cannot  be  perfectly  happy,  because  they  are 
base  in  comparison  with  the  high  and  holy 
affection  which  should  rule  in  marriage  unions, 
and  make  these  subordinate.  How  necessary 
is  it  then,  for  each  one  to  determine,  for  himself, 
what  his  own  ends  are,  and  endeavour  to  ascer« 
lain,  as  far  as  possible,  the  end  of  the  one  he 


40  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

proposes  to  unite  with,  himself — and  so  in  the 
opposite  case. 

The  end  which  William  Justin  proposed  to 
himself,  was  the  gaining  possession  of  a  portion 
of  Mr.  Melleville's  property,  for  selfish  gratifi- 
cation. Disappointed  in  this,  the  feeble  flame 
of  affection  that  had  been  kindled  for  Alice, 
soon  expired.  Had  he  obtained  the  money  he 
sought,  its  possession  would  have  been  as  fatal 
to  the  incipient  love  that  was  germinating  in 
his  mind,  as  had  been  his  disappointment. 
Thoroughly  selfish,  he  would  have  pursued  the 
broader  field  of  gratification  that  wealth  afforded 
him,  with  but  little  consideration  for  the  woman 
to  whom  he  owed  his  elevation. 

And  so  it  will  be  in  all  the  varieties  of  false 
principles  that  govern  in  marriages.  If  the 
real  end  which  a  woman  has  in  view  in  de- 
ciding to  marry  a  man,  is  to  obtain  a  position  in 
society,  and  enjoy  the  luxuries  and  refinements 
that  wealth  affords,  it  is  hardly  to  be  expected 
that,  in  case  of  reverses,  she  will  share  her 
husband's  changed  lot  with  contentment  and 
increased  affection.  Nor  will  she,  influenced 
by  such  a  base  and  selfish  principle,  be  satisfied 
to  see  others  occupying  a  rank  far  above  her. 


ALICE    MELLZVILLE.  41 

Envy  on  the  one  hand,  and  disappointment  on 
the  other,  would  both  be  antidotes  to  conjugal 
love. 

And  again — but  we  need  not  amplify.  The 
hints  we  have  given  are  enough  for  the  wise. 
To  return. 

Alice  had  not  seen  her  husband  for  several 
months,  and  all  the  burden  of  providing  for  the 
wants  of  her  children,  devolved  upon  herself. 
He  had  become  idle  and  dissipated,  and  had 
gone  off  to  Baltimore  under  the  pretence  of  ob- 
taining a  situation,  and  she  had  not  since  heard 
of  him.  On  the  night  in  which  she  is  again 
presented  to  the  reader,  her  thoughts  were  more 
than  usually  occupied  about  her  husband. 
Many  of  the  first  emotions  of  tenderness  which 
she  had  felt  for  him,  returned  upon  her,  and 
pity  for  his  wretched  abandonment  of  himself, 
mingled  with  her  kindling  affection.  As  the 
time  wore  on,  she  would  sometimes  pause,  in- 
voluntarily, and  listen,  as  if  for  the  sound  of  his 
approaching  footsteps.  Then  she  would  be« 
come  conscious  that  she  was  listening  in  vain, 
and  resume  her  wearisome  duties.  At  last  the 
impression  that  he  was  near  became  so  strong, 
that  she  could  sew  but  a  few  minutes  without 
4* 


42  ALICE     MELLEVILLE. 

pausing  to  listen.  All  at  once  her  heart  gave 
a  sudden  bound,  as  her  quick  ear  detected  in 
the  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps,  her  husband's 
familiar  tread.  The  sound  was  distant,  but  it 
neared  rapidly,  and  soon  it  became  apparent 
that  others  were  in  quick  pursuit.  Nearer  and 
nearer  came  the  sounds,  and  more  and  more 
agitated  did  the  lone  wife  become.  She  laid 
down  her  work  quietly,  went  to  the  door,  drew 
back  the  bolt,  lifted  the  latch,  and  stood  with  the 
door  in  her  hand,  her  heart  answering  with  a 
quick  bound  to  every  hurried  footfall.  The 
sounds  came  nearer  and  nearer  still — were  at 
the  very  door,  which  she  swung  open,  when  in 
bounded  her  husband,  pale,  bloody,  and  fright- 
ened. 

"Shut  the  door,  Alice,  for  Heaven's  sake! 
he  cried. 

It  was  closed,  bolted  and  locked  in  a  moment, 
but  not  an  instant  sooner  than  were  his  pur- 
suers on  the  spot,  who,  finding  him  safely 
housed,  vented  a  few  loud  threats  and  curses, 
and  then  went  away. 

"O,  William,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked 
his  wife,  in  a  tone  of  tender  anxiety. 

"  A  minute   later  and  I  would  have  been 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  43 

murdered !"  he  ejaculated.  "  How  fortunate  it 
was  that  you  opened  the  door  for  me  when  you 
did." 

"  It  was  Heaven's  mercy,  not  mine,"  she 
said,  meekly.  "  But  you  are  bloody,  William," 
she  continued,  her  pale  face  blanching,  "are 
you  much  hurt  ?" 

"  O,  no.  It's  only  a  scratch.  I'm  safe  and 
sound  enough.  I  came  to  the  city  to-night,  and 
dropped  into  a  tavern  on  the  avenue  for  a  little 
while.  Some  men  were  playing,  and  I  took  a 
hand  just  for  amusement.  I  won  at  every  game, 
until  I  broke  'em  all,  and  then  they  tried  to 
pick  a  quarrel  with  me.  One  of  them  called 
me  a  cheat,  when  I  knocked  him  down.  Then 
they  all  fell  on  me,  and  I  barely  escaped  being 
murdered.  They  were  so  angry,  that  if  they 
had  got  their  hands  on  me,  I  am  sure  they 
would  have  killed  me.  But  I've  won  fifty  dol- 
lars," he  added,  exuhingly,  throwing  a  roll  ol 
notes  upon  the  table,  near  which  he  had  seated 
himself. 

"  And  a  gambler,  too  !"  were  the  words  that 
formed  themselves  in  Alice's  thoughts — but  she 
uttered  no  reproof.  Her  heart  sunk  within  her 
at  the  idea,  (although  she  had  experienced 


44  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

enough  already  to  know  that  her  husband  pos- 
sessed little,  if  any  true  affection  for  her,)  that, 
after  an  absence  of  months,  during  which  he 
had  not  once  heard  from  his  family,  he  could 
return  to  the  city,  and  seek  first  to  mingle  with 
old,  corrupt  associates,  rather  than  search  out 
the  wife  and  little  ones  he  had  left  to  suffering 
and  want.  But  she  did  not  chide  him,  or  in 
any  way  allude  to  the  neglect. 

"  How  have  you  been,  William  ?"  she  asked, 
kindly,  after  the  first  silence  that  followed  the 
hurried  interest  of  his  return. 

11  I've  not  been  well,  Alice,"  he  said.  "  I 
<rent  to  Baltimore  in  hopes  of  getting  a  good 
situation  there  in  a  store,  but  was  disappointed. 
I  didn't  write  to  you,  for  I  had  nothing  to  write, 
and  nothing  to  send  to  you.  And  then  I  was 
taken  sick,  and  it  was  several  weeks  before  I 
could  get  about  again.  At  last  I  got  a  place  in 
a  store,  and  now  I  have  come  on  for  you  and 
the  children.  I  hope  we  shall  have  better  times. 
But  how  is  James  and  little  Alice  ?  And  how 
have  you  got  along  ?" 

"  The  children  are  not  very  well,  William," 
his  wife  said,  while  her  voice  trembled,  and  the 
moisture  gathered  in  her  eye.  "Poor  little 


ALICE    MELLEVILLB.  45 

things! — James  has  missed  you  so  much! — 
He  asks  every  day,  '  when  will  pa  come 
home?'" 

"  Well,  I  won't  leave  you  any  more,  Alice," 
he  said,  with  assumed  feeling.  But  the  dis- 
guise was  too  thin  to  deceive  a  woman's  heart, 
yearning  for  a  true  affection.  "  To-morrow  we 
will  get  ready  and  go  to  Baltimore,"  he  added. 

*<  But  have  you  a  good  situation  there,  Wil- 
liam?" inquired  his  wife,  anxiously.  •<!  am  / 
just  beginning  to  get  known  here  by  a  few  kind 
persons,  who  give  me  now  as  much  sewing  as 
I  can  do.  If  we  go  to  Baltimore,  and  your 
situation  should  not  prove  a  permanent  one,  J 
shall  be  in  a  strange  place,  and  not  able  to  get 
anything  to  do.  I  could  not  bear  to  hear  little 
James  asking  and  crying  again  for  something 
to  eat,  and  I  not  a  mouthful  in  the  house  !" 

This  touching  allusion  to  former  sufferings, 
seemed  to  irritate  rather  than  soften  William 
Justin. 

"  O,  that's  all  past !"  he  replied,  impatiently 
waving  his  hand.  "  And  let  the  past  go  !  I 
know  what  I  am  about ;  and  I  tell  you  that  my 
situation  is  a  good  one,  and  nermanent  too,  and 
wiU  yield  us  plentifully.' 


46  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

"  You  know  best,"  Alice  said,  with  a  meek, 
patient  look  of  endurance.  "  If  you  say  so,  I 
am  ready  to  go  there." 

"  Very  well.  We  will'  pack  up  our  thing? 
to-morrow,  and  put  them  on  board  of  a  packet, 
and  then  go  oft' in  the  stage." 

«  But  what  will  we  do  when  we  get  there, 
William?" 

"  Board,  of  course,  until  our  things  arrive," 
was  the  dogmatic  answer. 

On  the  next  morning,  sure  enough,  Justin 
commenced  packing  up  his  things  for  the  pur- 
pose of  removing  to  Baltimore.  Alice  assisted 
with  an  air  of  patient  resignation.  Her  man- 
ner, and  the  expression  of  her  eyes  and  face, 
showed  plainly  that  she  was  looking  up  for  sus- 
taining power.  Earthly  hope  and  promised 
happiness  had  failed  ;  and  now,  desiring  to  live 
for  her  children,  she  turned,  in  her  feebleness 
of  spirit,  to  the  Strong  to  sustain  her  in  her 
duties. 

In  two  days  they  were  on  their  way  to  Balti- 
more, where  Alice  looked,  again,  for  the  suffer- 
ing stranger's  lonely  heart,  as  her  portion. 


ALICE   MELLEVILLE. 


OHAPTEE  VI. 

"  SHALL  I  read  to  you,  Ma  ?"  asked  little 
Alice,  now  six  years  old. 

"  Yes,  dear.  Draw  a  chair  up  to  the  table, 
and  while  I  sit  here  in  bed  and  sew,  do  you 
read  for  me." 

Thus  do  we  again  introduce  Mrs.  Justin, 
five  years  from  the  day  she  removed,  with  her 
husband,  from  Washington  to  Baltimore.  The 
store  in  which  her  husband  had  engaged,  was  a 
liquor  store,  or  low  tavern,  where  he  spent  most 
of  his  time,  becoming  more  and  more  dissipated 
and  brutalized  in  his  feelings  every  day.  For 
a  short  time  he  provided  scantily  for  his  wife 
and  children,  but  soon  he  neglected  them  again, 
cruelly.  The  burden  of  almost  their  entire 
maintenance  fell,  of  course,  upon  his  wife,  in 
tt'hose  delicate  frame  disease  had  begun  to  make 
painful  inroads.  Her  nervous  system  had  be- 
come much  shattered,  and  there  were,  besides, 
too  apparent  symptoms  of  a  pulmonary  affec- 
tion, but  not  of  the  worst  kind.  Still,  she  was 


48  ALICE   MELLEVILLE. 

a  daily  sufferer,  and  much  of  her  time  she  was 
unable  to  sit  up  in  her  chair,  but  had  to  prop 
herself  up  in  bed  with  pillows,  where,  hall 
seated,  half  reclining,  she  would  ply  her  needle 
all  day,  and  frequently  for  half  the  night. 
James,  her  eldest  boy,  who  was  nine  years  old, 
had,  with  sympathies  and  right  thoughts  devel- 
oped at  that  tender  age,  sought  and  obtained  a 
situation  in  a  segar  factory,  and  was  earning  for 
his  mother  a  dollar  and  a  half,  and  sometimes 
two  dollars,  a  week.  He  had  been  taught  to 
read  well,  and  write  a  little,  by  her  for  whom 
he  was  now  devoting  his  young  years,  cheer- 
fully, to  daily  and  often  nightly  toil.  Alice 
has  numbered  six  summers,  and  has  also  learned 
to  feel  for  and  sympathise  with  her  mother. 
She,  too,  has  been  taught  to  read.  As  directed 
in  the  opening  of  this  chapter,  she  brought  a 
book  and  laid  it  upon  the  table,  which  had  been 
drawn  up  to  the  bed,  on  which  reclined  her 
mother.  She  then  sat  down,  and  opening  the 
book,  commenced  reading.  It  was  the  book 
she  most  loved  herself  to  read,  and  which  her 
mother  most  liked  to  have  read — the  Bible. 
Turning  to  the  book  of  Psalms,  the  little  girl 
read  slowly. 


ALICE   MELLEVILLE.  49 

*'  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd — I  shall  not 
want.  He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green 
pastures :  He  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  wa- 
ters. He  restoreth  my  soul :  He  leadeth  me  in 
the  paths  of  righteousness  for  his  name's  sake. 
Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil,  for  thou 
art  with  me  :  Thy  rod  and  thy  staff,  they  com- 
fort me." 

A  sound  like  that  of  a  sob  caught  the 
ear  of  the  child,  and  she  paused  and  look 
ed  anxiously  up  into  her  mother's  face.  But 
her  mother's  eyes  were  bent  as  usual  on 
her  work,  and  her  hand  that  held  the  needle 
was  moving  regularly.  Alice  again  read, 
and  continued  reading  thus  for  nearly  an 
hour,  when  she  became  wearied  and  closed 
the  book. 

"  Ma,"  said  the  child,  looking  up  into  her 
mother's  face,  as  a  sudden  thought  occurred  to 
her,  "  Havn't  I  got  a  grandmother,  too?  Mary 
Ellis  has  a  grandmother." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  Mrs.  Justin  replied,  after  a 
moment's  thought,  while  her  heart  trembled. 

"  Where  is  she,  ma?  I'd  like  to  see  her," 
pursued  Alice,  leaning  on  the  side  of  the  bed, 
5 


50 


ALICE   MELLEVILLE. 


and  looking  up  with  a  countenance  full  of  newly 
awakened  interest. 

"  She  lives  a  good  way  from  here,  Alice." 
"  Well,  I  should  like  to  see  her.     Won't  she 
love  me  as  well  as  Mary  Ellis's  grandmother 
loves  her  ?" 

This  was  prohing  a  wound  that  time  could 
not  heal.  But  the  mother  endeavoured  to  bear 
the  pain. 

"  If  she  saw  you,  Alice,"  she  replied,  "  I 
am  sure  she  would  love  you  very  much." 
"Why  don't  she  come  here,  ma  ?" 
"  She  lives  a  great  way  off,  dear." 
<{  Well,  I  wish  she  would  come,  for  I  would 
love  her  so  much,"  the  child  said,  half  musing- 
ly, and  then  remained  silent. 

"  You  love  to  read  in  the  good  book,  do  you 
not,  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Justin,  partly  because 
she  felt  inclined  to  ask  the  question,  and  partly 
to  suggest  other  thoughts  for  the  child  than 
those  which  were  occupying  her  mind. 
«  O  yes,  I  love  to  read  in  the  Bible." 
«  And  why  do  you  love  to  read  in  the  Bible, 
Alice?" 

"Because,  I  always  feel  good  when  I  am 
reading  it.  I  don't  know  what  the  reason  is, 


ALICE    MBLLEVILLE. 

but  no  book  makes  me  feel  like  the  good  book 
does." 

«  How  does  it  make  you  feel,  dear  ?" 

"It  makes  me  feel  kind  of  warmer  here," 
the  child  replied,  laying  her  hand  upon  her 
breast.  "  And  just  as  if  I  could  love  every 
body." 

Mrs.  Justin  mused  upon  the  answer  of  the 
child,  and  mentally  ejaculated,  "Blessed  book." 

Thus,  amid  pain,  and  wrong,  and  exile,  and 
privation,  were  the  consolations  flowing  from  a 
genuine  religious  principle,  beginning  to  dawn 
upon  the  troubled  heart  of  Alice  Melleville,  or 
rather  Mrs.  Justin. 

Towards  nine  o'clock  James  came  in.  Ho 
was  a  delicate  looking  boy,  with  his  mother's 
fair  face  and  dark  bright  eyes. 

"I  am  afraid  you  work  too  late,  James," 
said  his  mother,  as  he  came  in. 

"  Who  works  latest,  Ma  ?  and  who  is  best 
able,  you  or  I  ?"  he  asked,  with  earnest  ten- 
derness, and  with  a  tone  and  manner  that 
were  meant  evidently  to  settle  the  question  at 
once. 

Mrs.  Justin  smiled  afTectiouaHv  upon  her 
noble-spirited  boy,  and  said** 


ALICE  MELLEVILLE. 

"  You  are  considerate  of  your  mother, 
James." 

(t  Not  more  considerate  than  she  is  of  me," 
he  replied,  smiling  in  turn.  {( But  come,  Ma, 
put  up  your  work ;  I  know  your  head  aches 
badly,  and  the  pain  in  your  breast  must  be  bad, 
for  you  look  paler  than  usual.  I'll  work  harder 
to-morrow  to  make  up  for  it." 

The  tears  came  into  Mrs.  Justin's  eyes,  in 
spite  of  an  effort  to  keep  them  back. 

"  I  have  promised  this  shirt  to-morrow,"  she 
said,  "  and  if  I  don't  get  pretty  well  on  with  it 
to-night,  I  shall  not  have  it  done  in  time.  You 
know  I  always  feel  faint  and  sick  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  can't  do  much  until  towards  the  middle 
of  the  day." 

(( And  that  is  because  you  always  sit  up  so 
fate  at  night." 

"  That  may  have  some  effect.  But  I  cannot 
change  to-night.  Mrs.  Mansfield  is  very  kind 
in  getting  me  work,  and  giving  me  a  good  deal 
from  her  own  family.  I  know  she  wants  the 
half-dozen  shirts,  of  which  this  is  the  last,  to- 
morrow, by  the  middle  of  the  day.  Her  hus- 
band is  going  away  on  the  day  after,  and  she 
must  have  them  in  time,  to  do  up." 


ALICE   MBLLE  YILLE. 


53 


The  boy  saw  the  force  of  what  his  mother 
eaid,  and  was  silent.  He  now  read  for  his 
mother  a  chaptei  or  two  in  the  Bible  ;  and  then, 
as  he  had  to  rise  very  early  in  the  morning, 
retired  to  his  bed,  which  was  in  one  corner  ot 
the  room,  on  the  floor,  with  a  curtain  drawn 
before  it,  prepared  and  arranged  by  the  hands 
of  his  mother.  Justin  rarely  came  home,  and 
Alice  therefore  slept  with  her  mother.  Both  ot 
the  children  were  soon  fast  asleep,  while  their 
mother  continued  her  wearisome  task  until  the 
hour  of  midnight,  and  then,  after  lifting  her 
heart  upwards,  resigned  herself  to  slumber, 
which  was  now  becoming  sounder  and  sweeter 
than  it  had  been  for  years,  notwithstanding  her 
fast  failing  health 


ALICE   MELLEVILLE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THREE  years  more  passed  away,  during 
which  no  change  for  the  better  occurred  in 
Mrs.  Justin's  health.  She  had  still  to  toil,  in 
weariness,  beyond  her  strength,  and  with  all 
her  toil,  could  but  scantily  supply  the  wants  ol 
her  two  children.  What  added  seriously  to  her 
burden,  was  the  fact  that  her  husband  had 
grown  so  dissipated  and  idle,  that  no  one  would 
employ  him,  and  he  had  now  fallen  back  for 
support  on  the  feeble  arm  of  the  woman  he  had 
so  cruelly  wronged  from  the  beginning.  While 
He  was  away,  and  staid  away  from  his  little 
family,  they  were  as  happy  as  they  possibly 
could  be  under  the  circumstances  that  sur- 
rounded them ;  but  now,  the  constant  presence 
of  their  debased  father,  and  his  ill-nature  and 
frequent  authoritative,  arbitrary  manner,  robbed 
them  of  that  pleasure  which  they  once  enjoyed, 
Whenever  he  could  get  liquor,  he  would  drink 
until  intoxicated  and  then  come  home  to  sicken 


ALICE   MELLEVILLE.  55 

the  hearts  of  his  wife  and  children,  not  only  by 
his  revolting  appearance,  but  by  his  crossness 
and  interference  in  almost  everything.  James, 
now  twelve  years  old,  could  earn  his  mother 
three  dollars,  and  sometimes  more  than  that, 
every  week. 

Little  Alice  was  growing  every  day  dearer 
to  the  heart  of  her  mother,  Amid  poverty  and 
distress,  she  had  labored  to  sow  in  her  young 
mind  the  seeds  of  pure  thought  and  gentle  emo- 
tions. Every  Sabbath,  and  frequently  in  the 
evenings  when  her  father  was  out,  would  she 
read  to  her  mother  from  the  Holy  Book.  It 
was  a  touching  sight,  to  see  that  child,  not  nine 
years  old,  tracing  with  her  tiny  fingers  the  lines 
of  the  Holy  Record,  and  to  note  the  pale  coun- 
tename  of  the  sick  mother,  over  which  would 
pass  the  quick  flashes  of  pious  emotion,  when 
the  low  sweet  voice  of  the  child  lingered  on 
passages  of  comfort  to  the  afflicted.  And  it 
was  a  sight  to  make  an  angel  weep,  when  the 
drunken  father  would  come  in,  and  sometimes 
with  wicked  oaths  and  blows,  drive  that  tremb- 
ling child  from  her  low  seat  by  her  mother's 
side,  and  fling  the  sacred  book  with  impreca- 
tion* to  the  floor.  Thus  were  even  the  new 


56  ALICE    MELLEVILLB 

sources  of  comfort  springing  up  for  her,  turned 
into  active  causes  of  pain. 

One  morning  Alice  drooped  about,  and, 
after  dinner  drew  a  small  stool  up  to  a  chair, 
and  laying  her  head  upon  her  arms,  and  her 
arms  down  upon  the  chair,  was  soon  fast  asleep. 
Much  occupied,  her  mother  did  not  notice  that 
anything  ailed  the  child,  until  late  in  the  after- 
noon, when  casting  her  eyes  more  particularly 
upon  the  face  of  Alice,  who  still  slept,  she 
(nought  it  looked  very  red,  and  placing  her 
hand  upon  her  cheek,  found  it  hot  with  fever. 
She  roused  her  immediately,  when  she  com 
plained  of  a  sore  throat,  and  a  burning  all  ovei 
her.  In  great  concern,  Mrs.  Justin  waited 
until  dark,  when  her  husband  came  in. 

"I  wish  you  would  go  for  the  doctor,  Wil- 
liam," she  said  ;  "Alice  is  very  sick,  and  I  feel 
a  good  deal  alarmed  about  her." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  her  ?" 

"  She  has  a  high  fever,  and  complains  of  a 
sore  throat." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  it  worth  while  to  send  foi 
a  doctor.  She's  been  eating  too  much,  I  suppose, 
and  will  be  better  by  morning." 

"  Indeed,  William,  she  has  eaten  hardly  any 


ALICE    MELLEVILL1. 

thing  toxlay.  Do  go  for  the  doctor.  You  do  not 
know  how  very  ill  she  is." 

<«  I  shall  not  go  for  the  doctor,  then ;  for  I  don't 
see  any  use,"  he  replied,  angrily. 

"  Well,  never  mind,  then,"  his  wife  replied, 
soothingly,  for  she  dreaded  his  becoming  ex- 
cited ;  "  James  will  be  home  by  eight  or  nine 
o'clock,  and  he  can  go." 

"No  he  can't  though,"  was  the  drunken 
father's  reply.  u  No  doctor  shall  come  into 
the  house  this  night.  There  is  no  need  ot 
one." 

Mrs.  Justin  said  not  another  word.  She  knew 
that  it  would  be  useless  to  waste  words  with  her 
husband,  who  had  as  usual  been  drinking. 
With  excited  and  alarmed  feelings,  she  made 
use  of  all  the  means  in  her  power,  to  allay  the 
fever  that  was  burning  through  every  vein  01 
her  beloved  child.  Though  so  feeble  herself  as 
to  be  scarcely  able  to  move  about,  she  was 
buoyed  up  with  an  artificial  strength,  and  spent 
moBt  of  the  evening  in  bathing  Alice's  feet,  pre- 
paring her  hot  drinks,  and  using  every  means 
that  suggested  itself,  for  breaking  the  fever  and 
restoring  moisture  to  the  skin.  But  all  her 
efforts  were  vain. 


58  ALICE   MELLEVILLE. 

About  eight  o'clock,  James  came  home.  The 
father  had  gone  out  an  hour  before. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Alice,  mother?  "  he 
asked,  alarmed  at  her  ill  looks,  and  his  mother's 
distressed  countenance. 

«  She  is  very  sick,  James,  and  is  getting  worse 
all  the  while." 

"  Then  I  will  go  at  once  for  the  doctor." 

"  No,  James,  you  needn't  go  after  him  to- 
night." 

«  Why  mother  ?  she  is  very  sick." 

"  I  know  that.  But  she  will  no  doubt  be  better 
by  the  morning." 

"  But  suppose  she  is  worse  ?  See  how  much 
time  would  be  lost  ?" 

"  True — true.  But  your  father  says  we  must 
not  send  for  the  doctor  to-night." 

«  Why  ?" 

{t  He  does  not  think  Alice  very  sick." 

The  boy's  lip  curled.  But  a  single  steady 
glance  from  his  mother,  made  him  hide  the 
thoughts  that  were  in  his  mind. 

"  But  she  is  very  sick  now,"  he  said,  after  a 
few  moment's  pause,  "and  surely  he  would 
rather  have  you  send  for  the  doctor,  did  he  know 
how  bad  she  was." 


ALICE  MELLEVILLE. 

"  You  cannot  go  to-night,"  his  mother  replied, 
•nildly. 

By  nine  o'clock,  the  fever  had  increased 
greatly,  and  Alice  now  tossed  herself  about  and 
moaned  as  if  in  much  suffering.  Still  the  father 
came  not ;  and  the  two  who  loved  the  child  and 
sister  with  an  affection  increased  ten  fold,  at  the 
sight  of  her  danger  and  misery,  stood  by  the 
bedside  in  silent  agony.  At  length  James,  whose 
thoughts  had  been  busy  and  exciting,  started 
from  the  bedside,  saying  passionately — 

"  I  don't  care  what  father  says !  I  will  go  for 
the  doctor  !" 

*<  James  !  James ! !" 

But  the  excited  boy  heard  not,  or  regarded 
not,  for  he  passed  out  swiftly,  and  was  soon  at 
the  office  of  a  physician. 

Fortunately  the  doctor  was  in,  and  seeing  the 
alarm  depicted  in  the  boy's  countenance,  in- 
stantly attended  the  summons. 

The  father,  the  son,  and  the  physician,  all 
entered  the  room  where  lay  the  sick  child, 
together.  The  former  just  drunk  enough  to  be 
cross,  unreasonable,  and  tyrannical. 

«  Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  send  for  the  doctor  ?" 
were  his  first  angry  words,  regardless  of  the 


ALICE    MELLEVIILE 

presence  of  the  physician.  "  There's  nothing 
the  matter  with  Alice.  Come,  get  up,  you  little 
hypocrite  !"  addressing  the  sick  child,  and 
making  an  effort  to  pull  her  up  from  the  bed. 

Quick  as  thought  James  was  by  his  side,  and 
with  a  force  and  decision  beyond  his  years, 
pushed  his  father,  who,  staggering  away  from 
the  bed,  fell  over  a  chair  upon  the  floor.  Re- 
covering himself,  Justin  made  towards  the  boy, 
who  kept  out  of  the  way  until  the  physician, 
who  was  a  stout  strong  man,  took  hold  of  the 
inebriate,  and  placing  him  by  main  strength 
upon  a  chair,  told  him  in  a  stern  voice,  that  it 
he  were  not  at  once  quiet,  he  would  call  in  a 
watchman,  and  have  him  removed.  This  threat 
had  the  desired  effect. 

While  this  was  passing,  a  grey  headed  old 
man,  stood  just  outside  of  the  half-opened  door, 
looking  in  upon  the  excited  group.  He  seemed 
moved  by  the  scene,  for  he  dashed  off  a  tear 
that  fell  unbidden  to  his  cheek.  The  mother 
stood  near  the  bed,  with  her  face,  expressive  of 
the  Keenest  anguish,  turned  partly  towards  the 
door.  There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes.  Her 
hands  were  firmly  locked  together,  and  she  was 
glancing  steadily  upwards  as  if  earthly  hope 


ALICE    MBLLEVILLE.  61 

had  utterly  failed.  The  sick  child  had  raised 
herself  in  alarm,  and  was  staring  wildly  around. 
All  this  the  eye  of  the  old  man  took  in.  A 
moment  or  two  he  gazed,  as  if  horror-stricken, 
and  then  turned  and  passed  hastily  out.  The 
slight  noise  which  this  movement  occasioned, 
attracted  the  attention  of  those  within  the  room, 
and  broke  the  spell  that  bound  them. 

The  humane  physician  proceeded  immedi- 
ately to  examine  into  the  real  condition  of  the 
child.  The  mother  eagerly  watched  his  counte- 
nance, again  ail  alive  with  interest  for  the  little 
sufferer.  But  she  gathered  no  consolation  from 
his  countenance  which  seemed  to  express  much 
concern  a-nd  some  anxiety,  as  he  felt  the  pulse 
long,  and  thought  longer  before  he  made  any 
remark. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her,  doctor  ?"  at  length 
inquired  the  mother,  in  an  earnest,  trembling 
voice — her  nervous  agitation  increasing  her 
anxiety  and  alarm  tenfold. 

"  She  is  a  sick  child,  madam.  But  her  disease 
will  no  doubt  yield  to  active  treatment.  Send 
your  son  to  my  office  in  a  few  minutes  for  medi- 
cine." Then  turning  to  the  father,  he  said, 
sternly : 


62  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

«  The  life  of  your  child  depends  upon  her 
being  kept  perfectly  quiet.  If  you  make  any 
more  disturbance,  you  may  consider  yourself,  ii 
she  dies,  her  murderer." 

This  nearly  sohered  him ;  and  he  remained 
quiet,  and  showed  much  interest  in  the  condition 
of  little  Alice. 


CHAPTER  YIH. 

ON  the  next  morning,  when  the  physician 
came,  he  found  the  child  worse,  instead  of  better. 
The  medicine  he  had  prescribed,  failed  entirely 
in  the  effect  he  had  anticipated.  Her  fever 
was  still  high,  her  throat  very  sore  and  inflamed, 
and  her  skin,  in  many  places,  as  red  as  scarlet. 
Whether  the  disease  were  small  pox,  measles, 
or  scarlet  fever,  he  could  not  tell,  and  was  much 
perplexed  what  course  to  pursue.  The  child 
labored  much  in  breathing,  and  complained  of 
great  oppression  in  the  chest.  He  prescribed, 
and  called  again  in  the  evening  to  find  his 
patient  a  great  deal  worse.  Her  throat  had 
become  exceedingly  painful;  and  on  looking 
into  it,  he  found  it  not  only  highly  inflamed,  but 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  63 

in  many  places  beginning  to  ulcerate  and  turn 
black.  The  mother  was  greatly  distressed,  and 
even  the  father  was  beginning  to  exhibit  the 
existence  of  some  few  remains  of  humanity. 

On  the  next  day  hope  began  to  fail  in  the 
mother's  heart,  and  the  physician  saw  little  to 
encourage  him.  Up  to  this  time,  every  symp- 
tom had  continued  hourly  more  and  more 
aggravated.  The  action  of  medicine  had  pro- 
duced not  a  single  favorable  result.  It  was 
with  great  difficulty  that  the  sufferer  could 
swallow  even  a  draught  of  water.  Her  throat 
and  tongue  were  black  and  putrid,  and  her  skin 
continued  to  be  of  a  scarlet  hue. 

On  the  evening  of  the  eighth  day  after  she 
was  taken  sick,  the  father,  and  mother,  and 
brother,  were  gathered  around  little  Alice  to 
see  her  die.  Though  suffering  greatly,  she 
was  perfectly  sensible ;  but  the  disease  had 
rendered  her  so  completely  blind  that  she  could 
distinguish  no  one  by  sight. 

Mrs.  Justin's  mind  had  been  gradually  more 
and  more  convinced,  as  the  disease  grew  worse, 
that  her  child  must  die.  And  the  stronger  this 
conviction  took  hold  of  her  mind  the  less  she 
could  conceive  how  she  would  possibly  be  able 


i  _ 


64  ALICE    MEL  LEVILLE. 

bear  the  loss.  Still,  she  had  endeavored  to 
school  her  mind  to  resignation,  and  to  look 
upward  for  strength.  On  this  evening,  while 
sitting  beside  the  bed,  she  sobbed  out,  unable  to 
restrain  her  feelings. 

"  O  mother,  don't  cry  about  me  !"  said  the 
dying  child,  turning  her  face  towards  her  parent, 
in  which  was  an  expression  of  deep  sympathy 
and  concern. 

The  mother  answered  not ;  but  there  was  a 
struggle  within,  a  violent  struggle,  when  the 
expression  of  her  countenance  grew  calmer,  but 
fixed  and  almost  vacant.  She  had  resolved,  for 
the  sake  of  her  child,  to  give  no  audible  token 
of  grief.  Suddenly  Alice  started  forward, 
stretched  out  her  hands,  and  rolled  her  vacant 
eyes  staringly  about  the  room — then  she  fell 
back  in  a  slight  convulsion  upon  the  bed.  The 
mother  knew  that  the  hour  was  come,  and  she 
knelt  by  the  bedside  of  her  dying  child — still  as 
death — while  the  large  tears  trickled  through 
the  fingers  that  concealed  her  face. 

"  Mother,"  said  the  sufferer — "  I  can't  see 
you,  but  if  you  can  see  me,  kiss  me." 

A  sudden,  but  quickly  stifled,  convulsive  sob 
agitated  the  mother's  bosom,  as  she  bent  over  to 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  65 

kiss  the  dear  lips  of  her  child,  who  was  just 
falling  beneath  the  sickle  of  the  "  reaper  Death." 
The  slender  white  arms  of  Alice  were  thrown 
about  her  neck  and  firmly  clasped  for  a  few 
moments — then  slowly  withdrawn,  when,  with 
a  long  sigh,  she  turned  her  face  away. 

For  nearly  half  an  hour,  she  lay  with  her 
face  turned  to  the  wall,  the  mother,  the  while 
kneeling  by  the  bedside,  the  father  standing 
near,  much  agitated,  and  James  seated  upon 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  making  no  effort  to  conceal, 
or  wipe  away  the  tears  that  were  rolling  down 
his  young  cheeks. 

"  0  mother,  mother,  what  makes  my  heart 
jump  about  so  ?"  suddenly  cried  the  dying  one, 
rolling  her  sightless  eyes  wildly — "O  I  shall 
die  if  I  can't  get  breath  ?  Open  the  windows  ! 
Fan  me  ! — take  off  the  clothes  !  oh  ! — oh  !  oh  !" 

While  Alice  in  an  alarmed  tone  was  uttering 
rapidly  these  words,  which  passed  like  electri- 
city through  the  nerves  of  father,  mother,  and 
brother,  the  door  of  the  room  softly  opened, 
und  an  old  man,  the  same  who  had  lingered 
near  the  door  on  the  evening  Alice  was  dis- 
soveied  to  be  so  ill,  stole  quietly  in,  accom- 
panied by  an  elderly  woman,  respectably  at- 
6* 


r 

66  ALICE    MELLEVILLS. 

a  red.  Mrs.  Justin  did  not  observe  them — she 
\vas  too  much  absorbed  in  the  one  dear  object 
before  her. 

The  paroxysm  that  had  seized  Alice  soon 
subsided,  and  she  again  lay  motionless,  almost 
gasping  for  breath.  The  strangers  and  intruders, 
seated  themselves  in  a  far  corner  of  the  room, 
as  if  unwilling  to  break  the  spell  that  wrapt  the 
senses  of  all.  In  the  course  of  a  little  while 
Alice  again  roused  up. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  in  an  altered  voice, 
'<  let  me  kiss  you  before  I  go  to  sleep.  I  am 
going  to  sleep,  mother,  and  I  am  sure  it  will 
be  a  good  sleep  ;  and  then  I  shall  be  well 
again."  As  her  mother  bent  over  her,  the 
tears  fell  fast  upon  the  face  of  the  child,  who 
resumed,  in  a  fainter  tone  : 

"O  mother,  why  do  you  cry  so?  But  I 
know  you  are  sick — sick  and  in  pain — and  fa- 
ther scolds  so,  and  calls  you  such  bad  names — 
and  you  have  got  no  mother  with  you  like  I 
have,  to  be  good  to  you,  and  help  you  when 
you  are  sick.  But  don't  cry,  mother !  It  won't 
be  always  so— I  am  going  to  sleep  now,  good 
night." 

And  she  did  sleep  a  sweeter  s*eep  than  had 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  67 

ever  before  locked  her  senses  in  forgetful- 
ness.  The  struggle  was  slight  and  quickly 
over. 

At  this  moment,  the  female  stranger,  yet  un- 
noticed by  Mrs.  Justin,  came  eagerly  forward, 
and  catching  her  in  her  arms  as  she  was  about 
to  sink  to  the  floor,  whispered  a  single  word  in 
her  ear. 

How  the  poor,  bereaved,  heart-broken  mo- 
ther started  at  the  word  ! — listening  eagerly, 
not  daring  to  raise  her  eyes,  lest  the  spell 
should  be  broken,  and  reality  mock  a  sudden 
hope. 

•'  Alice  !"  murmured  the  stranger  again. 

"  My  mother,  my  own  dear  mother !"  she 
almost  shrieked,  turning  and  hiding  her  face 
in  that  bosom  which  had  so  often  pillowed 
it,  ere  a  breath  of  life  had  blown  roughly  upon 
her. 

Half  staggering  forward,  came  the  old  man, 
the  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks.  "  Alice  ! 
Alice  !  my  long  lost  child !  Alice,  speak  to  me 
or  my  heart  will  break." 

Mrs.  Justin  looked  up, — there  was  a  placid, 
heavenly  smile  upon  her  countenance. 

"  Dear  father  !  you  have  sought  your  erring 


68  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

child  at  last,"  she  said  in  a  subdued  tone,  ana 
again  hid  her  face  in  her  mother's  bosom. 

And  thus  were  they  reconciled,  after  long 
years  of  estrangement  and  sorrow. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

ABOUT  six  months  previous  to  the  occurrence 
of  the  exciting  incident  detailed  in  the  preceding- 
chapter,  Mr.  Melleville  came  home  from  an 
absence  of  a  few  days  and  found,  greatly  to  his 
alarm,  that  all  of  his  children,  three  sons  and 
two  daughters,  all  nearly  grown,  had  been  taken 
dangerously  ill  with  a  malignant  fever,  then 
raging  throughout  the  neighbourhood.  A  phy- 
sician had  been  in  attendance  already,  for  two 
days  ;  but  thus  far,  he  had  not  been  able  to  make 
the  slightest  impression  on  the  disease,  which 
continued  to  increase  in  violence  until  the  tenth 
day.  Then  came  the  crisis. 

"  Doctor,"  said  the  father,  with  a  pale,  anx- 
ious face,  as  he  met  the  physician  at  the  door 
on  the  tenth  morning,  "  I  want  the  very  truth 
from  you.  Look  at  my  children,  and  then  tell 
me  if  there  is  any  hope  " 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE, 


69 


The  doctor  passed  in  to  the  sick  rooms  with- 
out replying.  He  first  went  to  the  bed  of  a 
young  girl,  about  fifteen,  and  examined  all  her 
symptoms  with  much  care.  A  heavy  sigh 
escaped  him,  as  he  turned  away  to  another 
bed.  Here  he  found  still  less  to  encourage 
him.  An  examination  of  all  showed  the  painful 
fact,  that  in  each  one  the  disease  had  assumed 
its  most  malignant  type,  and  that  recovery 
would  be  little  less  than  a  miracle.  He  then 
gave  a  few  directions  to  the  attendants,  and 
went  out. 

"  Well,  Doctor  ?"  And  Mr.  Melleville  placed 
his"  hand  upon  the  physician's  arm,  heavily, 
and  stood  looking  him  in  the  face,  in  pale  sus- 
pense. 

"  There  is  but  little  hope,  Mr.  Melleville." 

A  quick  shudder  passed  through  the  father's 
frame. 

"  I  have  done  my  best,"  resumed  the  physi- 
cian. "  Your  children  are  in  the  hands  of  a 
merciful  God." 

Mr.  Melleville  clasped  his  hands  upon  his 
forehead  and  staggered  back  a  few  paces,  as  il 
from  a  heavy  blow.  But  rallying  himself  with 
a  strong  effort,  he  said : 


ALICE    MELLE YILLE. 

"Doctor — I  have  often  known  persons  to 
recover  after  all  hope  was  gone.  You  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  my  children  will  certainly 
die  ?" 

"No — no — Mr.  Melleville.  I  mean  to  say 
no  such  thing.  You  asked  me  for  the  truth. 
That  I  have  given  you.  He  only  can  re- 
store them,  who,  after  all,  is  the  physician 
who  heals  even  in  the  remedies  that  we  pre- 
scribe. Leave  them,  then,  in  his  hands — and 
do  so  with  the  assurance,  that,  whether  taken 
or  not,  their  greatest  good  will  be  the  end  se- 
cured." 

"  But,  sir,"  the  agitated  father  said,  again 
catching  hold  of  the  physician's  arm,  and  look- 
ing him  eagerly  in  the  face,  "I  cannot  give 
them  up  !  They  are  my  children  !  Bone  of 
my  bone  and  flesh  of  my  flesh  !  Save  them 
for  me,  and  name  your  reward.  Let  it  be  the 
half  of  all  my  worldly  goods.  But  save  my 
children  !" 

"  I  could  do  no  more  than  I  have  done,  were 
my  life  at  stake,"  replied  the  physician,  with 
solemn  earnestness.  "  They  are  in  the  hands 
of  Him  with  whom  are  the  issues  of  life.  Look 
ap  to  Him." 


ALICE    MELLEVILLB.  71 

The  physician  turned  away,  but  Mr.  Melle- 
ville  would  not  let  him  go. 

"  Doctor  !  Is  there  nothing  that  I  can  ofler 
you  to  save  my  children  ?" 

The  physician  was  deeply  moved. 

"  Mr.  Melleville,"  he  again  said,  "  they  are 
in  God's  hands,  not  mine.  I  have  no  power 
to  cure  but  what  I  receive  from  Him  who  has 
given  to  medicine  its  virtue.  All  that  I  can  do, 
I  have  done." 

"  But  you  will  not  leave  us,  Doctor,"  urged 
the  father,  in  a  tremulous  voice.  "Some 
change  for  the  better  may  take  place — a  change 
that  will  require  to  be  immediately  seconded  by 
your  skill." 

"I  will  return  in  an  hour,"  wa*  replied. 
"  Two  other  patients  are  in  like  peril  with  your 
children.  I  must  see  them," 

"  Doctor,  do  not  leave  us  !"  almos  implored 
the  distracted  father. 

"  My  other  patients  are  children,  loved  as 
tenderly  as  you  love  your  children.  To-day  is 
the  most  critical  period  in  their  diseast  I  must 
see  them." 

"  I  will  send  for  another  physiciai  X)  attend 
them.  Do  not  go  away,  Doctor." 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

«<  My  duty  is  plain,  Mr.  Melleville,  and  I 
cannot  neglect  it.  I  must  see  my  other  patients. 
But  I  will  return  in  an  hour." 

And  he  moved  towards  the  door. 

Again  the  father  urged  and  implored,  but  to 
no  purpose.  The  selfishness  of  his  affliction 
could  not  bend  the  inflexible  physician  from  the 
course  of  duty.  He  went  away,  leaving  Mr. 
Melleville  half  stupefied  under  the  appalling 
sense  of  his  children's  danger.  The  mother 
was  much  calmer,  though  no  less  really  appalled 
at  the  thought  of  the  impending  danger  that 
threatened  her  offspring. 

In  an  hour  the  physician  returned,  and  again 
examined  the  sick  children.  There  had  been 
a  change  in  their  symptoms  even  in  that  short 
period — a  change  for  the  worse.  This  his  quick 
eye  at  once  detected. 

"How  are  they  now,  Doctor?"  This 
was  asked  by  Mr.  Melleville,  in  a  husky 
whisper. 

"  There  is  no  change  for  the  better,"  was  the 
reluctant  reply. 

The  father  sunk  upon  a  chair  and  groaned 
heavily.  His  head  fell  upon  his  bosom,  his 
hands  were  tightly  clenched,  and  his  brows 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  73 

corrugated.  The  strong,  stern  man  was  broken 
in  spirit,  and  weak  as  a  woman. 

"  For  the  love  of  heaven,  Doctor,"  he  at 
length  said,  low  and  mournfully,  lifting  his 
head,  and  looking  at  the  physician  with  a  sad, 
imploring  face,  "  try  and  save  me  my  children, 
for  I  cannot  give  them  up.  If  they  die,  life 
has  no  more  charms  for  me.  Take  them  away, 
and  you  leave  me  nothing." 

The  Doctor  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  taking 
hold  of  his  hand,  said — 

"  Let  me  again  urge  you  to  look  to  the  Great 
Physician.  Whom  he  will  he  setteth  up,  and 
whom  he  will  he  casteth  down.  He  giveth  us 
life ;  and,  at  his  own  good  pleasure,  takes  back 
the  boon.  I  am  but  an  instrument  in  his  hands 
when  he  restores  the  sick  to  health.  When  he 
wishes  to  recall  any  of  his  creatures,  my  skill 
is  unavailing." 

But  Mr.  Melleville  could  look  to  any  other 
source  for  aid  rather  than  to  the  one  pointed  out. 
He  had  no  confidence  in,  and  nothing  to  hope 
for  from  God.  He  had  ever  been  more  inclined 
to  turn  away  from  Him,  and  set  at  nought  his 
precepts,  to  follow  out  the  leadings  of  his  own 
selfish  heart.  Whe*»  'ifc  went  smoothly,  he  had 


74  ALICE   MELLEVILLE. 

forgotten  God.     Now  he  felt  that  to  look  to  him 
would  be  all  in  vain. 

The  well-skilled  eye  of  the  physician  had 
not  deceived  him.  Death  speedily  claimed,  first 
one,  and  then  another  of  the  children  for  his 
own,  until  four  of  them  slept  calmly  the  ever- 
lasting sleep  to  earthly  things.  One  yet  lin- 
gered,— Mary,  the  eldest  of  the  five.  Though 
flickering  in  its  socket,  the  slender  flame  of  life 
still  burned  feebly  on.  Upon  her  were  now 
concentered  all  the  parents'  anxiety  and  hope. 
Those  that  had  died  were  beyond  the  reach  of 
human  hope.  They  could  only  be  mourned—- 
but Mary  still  lived  on.  How  eagerly  did  their 
shattered  and  aching  affections  cling  to  her. 
Others  rendered  to  the  dead  the  last  sad  offices, 
but  their  thoughts  were  all  for  the  living,  whose 
side  they  left  not  for  a  moment,  except  to  join, 
for  a  short  period,  in  the  funeral  train.  While 
they  stood  by  the  graves  of  their  dead  children, 
their  thoughts  were  with  the  living  one.  It 
was  this  that  saved  them.  Nature  could  not 
have  borne  the  agony  they  must  have  endured, 
m  parting  so  suddenly  with  their  household  idols, 
if  there  had  not  been  in  their  minds  an  all-ab- 
sorbing anxiety  for  the  one  that  yet  remained. 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  75 

One  more  day  of  agonising  suspense,  and 
then  there  was  a  dawn  of  light.  The  wasting 
disease  that  had  clung  to  the  vitals  of  their  child, 
relinquished  its  hold,  and  left  her  as  weak  as  a 
new  born  infant.  Gradually,  a  healthy  action 
supervened  ;  and  under  the  constant  judicious 
care  of  the  physician,  she  slowly,  but  surely 
recovered. 

Lonely,  sad,  and  desolate  was  the  household 
of  Mr.  Melleville  after  this  afflictive  dispensation. 
The  father  wandered  about  with  drooping  head, 
and  his  eyes  turned  dreamily  inward.  The 
mother  hovered  around  the  bed  of  Mary  with 
trembling  interest,  fearful  lest  the  destroyer  had 
not  passed  over.  But  death  had  fulfilled  his 
mission.  One  jewel  was  spared  to  them — now, 
in  their  estimation,  of  princely  value. 

In  about  two  weeks  Mary  had  so  far  reco- 
vered as  to  be  able  to  sit  up.  The  silence  and 
desolation  that  reigned  around  oppressed  her 
heart,  that  mourned  over  its  lost  ones  with  a 
grief  that  could  not  be  comforted. 

One  morning,  three  weeks  after  the  shadow 
of  death  had  fallen  darkly  over  them,  Mary, 
who  was  able  to  sit  up  for  a  few  hours  at  a 
time,  was  leaning  back  upon  the  pillows  that  a 


ALICE     MELLEVILLE. 

careful  hand  had  arranged  around  her,  with  her 
eyes  closed.  Her  father  and  mother  held,  each, 
a  hand,  and  were  gazing  upon  her  face.  They 
spoke  not,  for  she  seemed  sleeping.  But  no, 
she  slept  not ;  for  her  eyelids  quivered,  and 
seemed  tightly  pressed  together.  In  a  little 
while  a  tear  stole  quietly  forth,  and  rested  upon 
her  cheek.  The  hearts  of  both  father  a,nd 
mother  were  touched.  That  drop  they  knew 
was  for  the  lost  ones  she  had  loved  so  tenderly. 
Their  own  eyes  grew  dim. 

"  Mother,"  said  the  invalid,  in  a  little  while, 
ere  closing  her  eyes,  that  were  swimming  in 
tears,  "  I  had  a  strange  dream  last  night.  May 
I  tell  it  to  you?" 

"  Yes,  love.  Let  us  hear  your  dream." 
"  I  dreamed,"  said  Mary,  her  voice  trembling 
with  suppressed  feeling,  while  tears  came  slowly 
from  her  eyes  and  rolled  over  her  face,  "  that  I 
was  well  enough  to  walk  out.  It  was  a  calm 
summer  evening,  and  the  air  was  sweet  with 
the  odor  of  May  blossoms.  I  wandered  out,  I 
thought  not  whither,  but  I  soon  came  into  a 
little  enclosure,  where  were  four  new  made 
graves.  I  knew  them  to  be  the  graves  of  my 
sister  and  brothers.  I  eat  down  beside  them 


r" 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE  77 

and.  Juried  bitterly.  I  wished  that  I  had  died 
also,  that  I  might  still  be  with  them.  I  hud 
been  weeping  there,  it  seemed  to  me,  a  long 
time,  when  I  heard  my  name  called,  and  turn- 
ing around,  saw  Ellen  standing  near  me,  all 
dressed  in  white  garments — her  face  radiant  ol 
heavenly  beauty.  She  held  by  the  hand  a 
pale,  wasted,  sad-looking  creature,  in  tattered 
garments  and  with  a  lank  body.  It  was  Alice  ! 
My  own,  long  lost  sister  Alice ! 

"  <  There  is  one  left  to  you,'  Ellen  said.  '  For- 
get not  the  living  while  mourning  over  the 
dead  !'  All  vanished  from  my  eyes,  and  I 
awoke." 

A  deep  groan,  half  repressed,  escaped  Mr. 
Melleville,  as  he  arose  and  left  the  room,  in  an 
agitated  manner.  For  more  than  three  hours 
he  paced  the  floor  of  his  own  chamber,  his  mind 
in  an  agony.  He  was  suddenly  self-convicted 
of  the  most  unnatural  and  cruel  conduct  towards 
his  cast-off  child,  whose  condition,  if  living,  he 
had  too  good  reasons  for  believing,  was  in  all 
respects  as  bad,  if  not  worse  than  that  of  the 
apparition  in  Mary's  dream.  During  all  this 
time,  the  mother,  with  whom  Mary  had  been 
pleading  for  her  sister,  did  not  go  near  him. 
7* 


78  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

At  length,  however,  she  left  the  room  and 
joined  her  husband.  Mary's  tears  and  en- 
treaties had  not  been  needed.  Long,  long 
before  would  Alice  have  been  received  into 
her  bosom,  but  Mr.  Melleville  was  proud  and 
inexorable.  Now,  she  thought  it  best  to  leave 
him  to  his  own  thoughts,  a,nd  she  did  so  for 
the  period  we  have  named.  When  she,  at 
length,  entered  their  chamber,  where  he  had 
retired,  she  found  him  seated  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands  and  his  head  resting  upon 
a  table.  He  did  not  move  at  the  sound  of  her 
footsteps. 

"  Let  us  forgive  her,  as  we  hope  for  God's 
forgiveness,"  Mrs.  Melleville  said,  in  a  low, 
quivering  voice,  touching  the  hand  of  her  hus- 
band with  her  own. 

A  quick  shudder  passed  through  his  frame. 
Then  he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  his  wife 
with  a  countenance  greatly  changed.  It  was 
sad,  subdued,  and  full  of  remorse. 

"  I  have  been  worse  than  a  beast  of  prey," 
ne  said,  with  bitter  emphasis.  "My  poor, 
poor  child  !  Who  can  tell  to  what  depths  of 
wretchedness  and  misery  thy  father's  hard  heart 
hath  doomed  thee !" 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  79 

"  Let  us  search  her  out,  and  bring  her  back," 
said  Mrs.  Melleville. 

"  If  she  yet  lives,  I  will  find  her,"  was  the 
firm  reply  to  this.  «  To-morrow  I  will  begin 
the  search.  May  heaven,  in  mercy,  give  me 
success  !" 

With  anxious  feelings  on  the  morrow,  Mr. 
Melleville  commenced  his  search.  The  last  in- 
telligence of  Alice  was  the  news  that  she  had 
gone  to  Washington  with  her  husband.— 
Learning  from  Justin's  old  employer  that  the 
young  man  had  been  offered  the  situation  of  a 
bar-keeper  in  that  city,  Mr.  Melleville  set  out 
upon  his  errand,  trembling  lest  his  hard  heart  had 
relented  too  late.  Ariving  in  Washington,  his 
first  enquiries  were  made  at  Brown's  and  Gads- 
by's,  but  without  success.  No  person  answer- 
ing his  description  had  ever  been  employed  by 
the  keeper  of  either  of  these  houses.  He  then 
commenced  the  descending  scale,  prosecuting 
his  inquiries  from  tavern  to  tavern,  until  he  had 
gone  through  nearly  the  whole  series  of  drink- 
ing houses  with  which  the  city  abounded, 

te  Did  a  young  man,  named  William  Justin, 
ever  keep  bar  for  you  ?"  he  asked  for  the  for- 
tieth time,  going  up  to  a  bloated  wretch  who 


r 


80 


„ 


ALICE   MELLEV1LLE. 


stood  behind  the  counter  of  a  grog  shop,  and 
looked  as  if  he  might  be  the  best  customer  ol 
his  own  wares. 

«  No,"  was  the  gruff  reply. 

As  he  was  turning  away,  a  customer,  several 
degrees  lower  in  the  scale  of  sensual  degradation 
than  the  landlord,  got  up  from  a  bench,  and 
staggering  forward,  said — 

u  Did  you  ask  for  William  Justin  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  quickly  replied  Mr.  Melleville, 
turning  towards  the  speaker  :  -"  Do  you  know 
him  ?" 

"  I  did  know  him  several  years  ago.  But 
hav'nt  seen  him  for  a  long  time." 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  is  ?" 

"  He  went  to  Baltimore  seven  or  eight  years 
ago." 

«  Was  his  wife  with  him  ?"  asked  Mr.  Melle 
ville,  in  an  eager  voice. 

"  His  wife  ?  O  yes.  He  took  her  along, 
and  his  two  children,  also— poor  things  !" 

**  Was  he  very  poor  ?" 

11  Poor !  Yes,  as  Job's  turkey.  Poor  as 
a  sot !  Just  such  a  poor  sot  as  I  am  now 
Look  at  me — and  imagine  that  I  am  William 
Justin  " 


ALICE    M£LLi£viLLB  81 

"  Did  you  ever  see  his  wife.  ?'  Mr.  Melle  villa 
ventured  to  ask. 

"  Did  I !  O  yt s.  Many  a  time  have  I  seen 
her  with  her  poor,  half  clothed  little  boy  by  the 
hand,  going  to  the  shops  for  work.  They  said 
her  father  was  a  rich  old  fellow  in  Virginia,  and 
that  he  had  cast  her  off  for  marrying  against  his 
will.  I  don't  know  about  that.  If  it  was  so, 
and  he  really  did  leave  her  to  drag  about  after 
such  a  man  as  her  husband,  he  must  have  been 
the  hardest  hearted  wretch  in  creation." 

"  They  went  to  Baltimore  ?"  Mr.  Melleville 
said,  as  soon  as  he  could  venture  to  speak,  and 
not  betray  his  real  feelings. 

"  Yes — about  seven  or  eight  years  ago." 

"  Do  you  know  for  what  purpose  he  went 
there  ?" 

"  To  tend  bar,  he  told  me." 

"  For  whom  ?" 

"  That  I  don't  know.  But  it  was  for  some 
low  grog  shop  keeper,  no  doubt." 

Mr.  Melleville  would  have  inquired  farther 
about  Alice,  but  he  dreaded  to  hear  more.  She 
had  gone  to  Baltimore  with  her  husband.  Thai 
much  he  had  learned.  To  Baltimore  he  at  once 
proceeded  and  commenced  his  search  for  Justin 


82  ALICE    MELLEVILLE 

amid  the  lowest  haunts  of  dissipation.  Weeks 
passed,  and  he  could  hear  nothing  of  him.  He 
was  about  abandoning  the  pursuit  in  that  way, 
and  resorting  to  advertisement,  when  in  pass- 
ing along  a  narrow  street  one  evening,  he  saw  $ 
a  man  staggering  into  the  door  of  a  poor  tene- 
ment, followed  immediately  by  a  well-dressed 
man  and  a  boy.  A  sudden  impulse  prompted 
him  to  follow.  The  scene  he  witnessed  has 
already  been  described.  Once  more  he  looked 
upon  the  face  of  his  child.  But  O,  how 
changed!  The  bright  young  cheek,  rich  in 
its  hue  as  the  summer  blossom,  had  lost  its 
glow,  and  was  now  pale  and  thin — her  eye, 
that  had  shone  with  a  happy  sparkling  lustre, 
he  saw  but  once  lifted  from  its  drooping  position, 
and  then  it  was  wild  for  a  moment  with  agony, 
and  then  fixed  almost  in  despair.  Her  whole 
face  beaming,  the  last  time  he  saw  it,  with 
youth,  health  and  beauty,  was  now  moulded 
into  a  cast  of  heart-touching  sorrow,  and  marred 
with  the  lines  of  suffering. 

For  a  few  moments  he  gazed  with  the  tears 
upon  his  cheeks,  and  then  turning  away,  sick 
and  faint,  he  was,  in  the  next  hour,  hastening 
back  to  his  home.  An  hour  after  he  arrived 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  83 

with  Mrs.  Melleville  he  was  returning  again, 
and  was  just  in  time  to  witness  the  closing  scene 
of  little  Alice's  life. 

The  sad  duties  required  were  paid  to  all  that 
was  left  of  the  sweet,  innocent  child,  and  then 
Mr.  Melleville  went  back  to  his  home,  with 
Alice  and  her  boy.  The  father  was  left  by  the 
old  man  to  die  in  an  almshouse,  or  lead  an 
honest  industrious  life,  just  as  he  might  choose. 
He  had  no  sympathy  for  him. 


CHAPTER     X. 

"DEAR  sister !"  ejaculated  Mary,  now  reco 
vered  from  her  illness,  folding  the  attenuated 
form  of  Alice  in  her  arms. 

Alice  laid  her  head  upon  Mary's  shoulder 
and  wept  for  a  moment  or  two;  and  then  lifting 
her  face,  asked  for  Ellen,  and  George,  and  Wil- 
liam and  Thomas. 

a  They  have  all  been  taken  away  from  us, 
Alice  !"  her  father  said,  with  a  strong  effort  at 
composure. 

"Not  dead!" 

*'  Yes,  my  child,  all  dead,"  the  tears  gush 


4  ALICE    MELLEV  ILLE. 

ing  from  his  eyes.     (( We  have  but  you  and 
Mary  left." 

It  were  needless  to  picture,  or  attempt  to  pic- 
ture the  wordless  grief  of  Mrs.  Justin's  heart, 
when  she  found  that  the  deir  little  ones  she 
had  so  loved,  years  before,  and  whose  bright 
young  faces  and  glad  voices  she  had  so  often 
yearned  to  see  and  hear,  had  all  passed  away 
like  the  figures  in  a  dream.  Sadly  did  she 
mourn  for  them  many,  many  days.  How  often 
in  her  lonely  exile  had  she  thought  of  these 
dear  ones  !  How  often  had  she  dreamed  or 
them  !  How  often  had  her  heart  fluttered  like 
a  caged  bird,  eager  to  fly  back  to  the  parent 
tree,  and  gather  those  little  ones  again  in  her 
arms.  During  her  journey  homeward,  with 
her  father  and  mother,  she  had  not  once  asked 
for  them.  She  had  feared  to  do  so.  Thirteen 
years  had  rolled  away,  and  she  dared  scarcely 
hope  that  changes  had  not  been  wrought  in  her 
father's  house,  that  death  had  not  been  there 
As  the  carriage  that  conveyed  her  back  to  her 
old  home  rolled  up  the  broad  avenue  that  led 
to  the  family  mansion,  her  whole  frame  became 
agitated.  She  bent  eagerly  out  of  the  window, 
and  took  in  at  a  glance  the  old  familiar  objects 


ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

and  places  that  were  dearer  to  her  than  any 
other  upon  the  whole  earth. 

But  only  one  of  the  dear  ones  she  had  left 
behind  stood  amid  the  group  of  servants  that 
crowded  ariout  the  door.  It  was  Mary.  She 
was  soon  in  her  arms.  Her  heart  foreboded  an 
evil  answer  as  she  lifted  her  head  from  the 
bosom  of  her  sister,  and  asked  for  those  whom 
her  eyes  would  no  more  see  upon  the  earth. 
That  answer  confirmed  all  she  had  most  dreaded 
to  hear.  They  were  sleeping  their  last,  long, 
dreamless  sleep  !  How  silent  and  desolate  the 
old  mansion  seemed  to  her,  as  her  footsteps 
echoed  along  its  walls  !  She  was  home  again. 
The  long  banished  one  had  returned — but  she 
found  not  all  as  she  had  left  it.  There  were, 
alas  !  too  many  vacant  seats  at  the  board. 

Thirteen  years,  spent  in  exile,  sorrow,  pain 
and  cruel  neglect,  had  wrought  a  great  change 
on  Alice.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  herself;  as 
she  really  was  not,  the  same  being  who  had 
left  her  father's  house  a  long  time  before,  fondly 
confiding  in  one  who  had  basely  wronged  her. 
To  her  father  and  mother  it  appeared  almost 
impossible  that  the  pale,  bent,  emaciated,  care- 
worn creature  they  had  brought  home  could  be 
8 


86 


ALICE    MELLEVILL*. 


the  sunny  child  once  loved  with  such  deep 
tenderness.  Not  less  changed  was  everything 
to  the  eye  of  Alice.  Home,  in  all  her  day 
dreams,  and  night  visions — home,  the  Paradise 
for  which  she  ever  sighed  like  tire  banished 
Peri — was  a  spot  invested  with  all  that  was 
lovely.  The  old  mansion,  the  tall  trees  that 
clustered  majestically  around,  and  spread  their 
leaf-laden  branches  as  if  in  benediction  over  it, 
— no  spot  on  earth  was  so  lovely  as  this.  But 
now,  when  her  eyes  had  been  blessed  with  the 
long-desired  vision  of  home,  now,  when  she 
again  trod  the  halls  and  familiar  apartments  ot 
the  old  homestead,  and  looked  out  upon  the  tall 
trees,  green  lawn,  vine-clad  arbors,  and  fragrant 
garden  walks,  a  change  was  visible.  The  trees 
were  the  same  old  forest  monarchs,  and  their 
arms  depended  with  the  same  protecting  grace, 
but  the  brightness  and  beauty  with  which  her 
fond  imagination  had  invested  them  were  gone. 
She  wandered  from  room  to  room  of  the  spacious 
.nansion.  All  was  familiar,  and  yet  all  was 
changed.  Why  was  it?  Alas!  the  change 
was  in  her  own  heart.  She  saw  with  different 
eyes.  The  deep,  heart-searching  trials  of  thir- 
teen years  of  banishment  had  taken  off  the 


1 


JLLICE    MELLEVILLE.  87 

charm  from  external  things.  They  had  no 
longer  the  power  to  delight  that  they  had  pos- 
sessed, when  life  was  fresh  and  young. 

"  I  am  not  the  same  being  I  was,  or  else 
things  have  greatly  changed,"  she  said  to  Mary, 
a  few  days  after  her  arrival  at  home.  "Nothing 
looks  to  me  as  it  did  before  I  went  away." 

"And  yet,  all  is  as  it  then  was.  I  see  no 
difference,"  Mary  replied. 

"  The  change  is  no  doubt  here,"  Alice  said, 
in  a  mournful  voice,  laying  her  hand  upon  her 
heart  as  she  spoke.  "  I  see  with  different  eyes. 
But  I  wish  it  were  not  so.  I  wish  it  were  to 
me  as  I  had  fondly  hoped  it  would  be — brigh* 
and  beautiful  as  before." 

"  But  why  is  it  not  so,  dear  sister  ?"  Mary 
said,  twining  her  arms  fondly  about  her  neck, 
and  pressing  her  lips  to  her  cheek.  "  This  is 
home — -your  own  home.  And  we  love  you  as 
tendorly — yes,  far  more  tenderly  and  purely 
than  we  ever  loved  you." 

'  1  can  hardly  tell,  Mary.  Perhaps  it  is  be- 
cause there  are  so  few  to  love  me.  Dear  little 
Willie  !  How  often  have  I  dreamed  of  him  ! 
How  often  have  I  folded,  involuntarily,  my  arms 
tightly  across  my  bosom,  when  thinking  of  the 


ALICE    MELLEVILLK. 

sweet  child,  fondly  imagining  that  he  was  in  £ 

them — bendkig,  as  I  did  so,  my  face,  to  lay  it  \ 

upon  his  downy  cheek.     Dear  child  !     I  shall  . 

see  him  no  more  !  And  sprightly  Ellen — she, 
too,  is  gone — and  George,  and  Thomas  !  All — 
all  gone  !  And  my  own  innocent  child  is  num 
bered,  too,  with  the  lost  ones  !" 

As  Mrs.  Justin  said  this,  her  feelings  gave 
way,  and  she  wept  for  a  long  time.  Mary's 
tears  were  mingled  with  hers. 

Gradually,  however,  Mrs.  Justin  became 
more  cheerful ;  and  this,  with  the  fact  of  her 
restoration  to  them,  helped  to  buoy  up  the  spirits 
of  her  father  and  mother,  deeply  depressed  on 
account  of  the  great  affliction  they  had  sustained 
in  the  loss  of  their  children. 

It  was  not  long  before  Alice  and  their  grand- 
child filled  a  large  place  in  the  aching  void 
that  had  been  left  in  their  hearts.  A  light 
began  to  fall  here  and  there  in  mellowed  spots 
through  the  household,  gradually  diffusing  itself, 
until,  even  to  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Justin,  home  wore 
something  of  its  former  charm. 

One  day,  while  -the  sisters  were  alone  in  their 
chamber,  Alice  drew  a  soiled  and  rumpled  papei 
from  her  trunk,  and  holding  it  up,  said : 


I 
f 

ALICE    MELLEVILLE.  89 

"  Mary,  you  know  not  how  often  my  heart 
has  blessed  you  for  this  letter.  It  has  remained 
the  one  dear  link  that  has  bound  me  to  my 
home,  telling  me,  that  if  all  the  rest  had  forgot- 
ten me,  there  was  one  heart  whose  love  no  cir- 
cumstances could  change.  I  cannot  tell  how 
often  I  have  read  and  wept  over  this  earnest  of 
your  young  and  pure  affection.  '  One  heart  is 
true  to  me  still !  One  heart  bears  faithfully 
my  image  !'  I  have  often  said,  when  thinking 
of  home." 

Mary  did  not  reply.  Words,  though  forming 
on  her  tongue,  her  tongue  refused  to  utter. 
But  she  silently  threw  her  arms  around  her 
sister's  neck,  and  with  hearts  full  of  tenderness 
that  separation  and  change  had  only  rendered 
more  fervent,  they  embraced  each  other. 

In  reclaiming  his  child,  Mr.  Melleville  had 
acted  with  entire  disregard  to  her  husband,  as 
much  so  as  if  he  had  not  been  living.  Against 
him,  his  heart  felt  a  strong  resentment.  As 
for  Alice,  cruelly  as  he  had  abused  her,  he 
bore  still  to  her  the  relation  of  a  husband,  and 
she  could  not  think  of  him  without  some  move- 
ment of  that  tenderness  she  had  once  felt. 
Months  passed  away,  and  she  heard  nothing  oi 


90  ALICE    MELLEVILLE. 

? 

him.  At  length  a  letter  came.  It  was  from 
the  keeper  of  the  Alms-house  at  Baltimore 
The  intelligence  it  brought  was,  that  her  hus- 
band had  died  there  a  few  days  before.  A  few 
natural  tears  were  shed,  and  then  her  spirits 
rose  as  if  reacting  from  a  heavy  pressure.  He 
had  lived  to  be  the  loathsome  skeleton  of  which 
she  had  dreamed,  and  from  whose  disgusting 
and  horrible  presence  she  could  not  get  free, 
until,  as  in  her  dream,  her  father  had  lifted  the 
bony,  putrescent  hand  from  her  bosom. 

And  now  we  must  drop  the  curtain  on  the 
history  of  Alice  Melleville,  or  rather  Mrs.  Jus- 
tin. The  stream  that  has  long  been  fettered 
and  wasted  amid  rocks,  and  tossed  over  preci- 
pices, has  found  at  last  a  peaceful  vale,  where 
it  moves  along  in  stillness  and  purity. 


CATALOGUE 

or 

HUMBLE  AND   INTERESTING   WORKS, 


PUBLISHED   AXD    BOLD   BT 


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They  are  printed  on  fine  white  paper,  and  bound  is 
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ARTHUR'S  SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHA- 

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printed  octavo  pages,  is  illustrated  by  splendid  engn»  r*>?9,  and 
asade  particularly  valuable  U  those  who  like  to  "  see  the  .i*en  of 
kirn  they  talk  withal,"  by  a  correct  likeness  of  the  author,  kj)'jL» 


In  the  princely  mansions  of  the  Atlantic  merchants,  and  in  the 
Ride  log-cabins  of  the  backwoodsmen,  the  name  of  Arthur  it 
•qually  known  and  cherished  as  the  friend  of  virtue. — ffrahum'$ 
Ifagaeine. 

We  would  not  exchange  our  copy  of  these  sketches,  with  ita 
Itory  of  "  The  Methodist  Preacher,"  for  any  one  of  the  gilt-edged 
•nd  embossed  annuals  which  we  have  yet  seen. — Lady's  National 
Magazine. 

The  first  story  in  the  volume,  entitled  "The  Methodist  Preacher, 
or  Lights  and  Shadows  in  the  Life  of  an  Itinerant,"  is  alone 
worth  the  price  of  the  work. — Evening  Bulletin. 

It  is  emphatically  a  splendid  work.— Middletown  Whig. 

Its  worth  and  cheapness  should  place  it  in  every  person's  hand* 
who  desire  to  read  an  interesting  book. — Odd  Fellow,  Boonsboro'. 

"The  Methodist  Preacher,"  "Seed-Time  and  Harvest,"  "Dyed 
In  the  Wool,"  are  full  of  truth  as  well  as  instruction,  and  any  one 
of  them  is  worth  the  whole  price  of  the  volume. — Lowell  Day- 
Har,  Rev.  D.  C.  Eddy,  Editor. 

There  is  a  fascination  about  these  sketches  which  so  powerfully 
interests  the  reader,  that  few  who  commence  one  of  them  will 
part  with  it  till  it  is  concluded;  and  they  will  bear  reading  re- 
peatedly.— Norfolk  and  Portsmouth  Herald. 

Those  who  have  not  perused  these  model  stories  have  a  rich 
feast  in  waiting,  and  we  shall  be  happy  if  we  can  be  instrumental 
in  pointing  them  to  it — Family  Visitor,  Madison,  ffeo. 

No  library  for  family  reading  should  be  considered  complete 
without  this  volume,  which  is  as  lively  and  entertaining  in  ita 
character  as  it  is  salutary  in  its  influence.— If.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  work  is  beautifully  illustrated.  Those  who  are  at  all  ac- 
quainted with  Arthur's  writings  need  hardly  be  told  that  the  pro- 
Bent  work  is  a  prize  to  whoever  possesses  it — N.  Y.  Sun. 

We  know  no  better  book  for  the  table  of  any  family,  whether 
regarded  foi  its  neat  exterior  or  valuable  contents. —  Vox  Populi, 
Lowell. 

The  name  of  the  author  is  in  itself  a  sufficient  recommenda- 
tion of  the  work.— Laiorence  Sentinel. 

T.  6.  Arthur  is  one  of  the  best  literary  writers  of  the  age.— 
Watchman,  Cirdeville.  Ohio. 

The  name  alone  of  tb/>  author  is  a  sufficient  guaranty  to  th» 


reading  public  of  ita  surpMsing  merit—  The  Arpu, 

Probably  be  has  not  written  a  line  which,  dying,  he  could  wisi 
I  to  erase.— Parkersburg,  ( Fa.)  Gazette. 

|         LIGHTS    AND  SHADOWS   OF  REAL    LIFE, 

with  an  autobiography  and  portrait  of  the  author,  over  W* 
pages  octavo,  with  fine  tinted  engravings.     $2.00. 

NOTICES   Or   THE    PRESS. 

In  this  yolume  may  be  found  a  "moral  suasion,"  which  cannot  '> 

but  affect  for  good  all  who  read.    The  mechanical  execution  of  <; 

the  work  is  very  beautiful  throughout — New  Haven  Palladium.  t 

It  is  by  far  the  most  valuable  book  ever  published  of  hii 

rorks,  inasmuch  as  it  is  enriched  with  a  very  interesting,  though  , 

Brief  autobiography. — American  Courier.  tf 

No  family  library  is  complete  without  a  copy  of  this  book.—  ? 
Scott i  Weekly  Paper. 

No  better  or  worthier  present  could  be  made  to  the  young;  no  £ 

offering  more  pure,  charitable,  and  practicable  could  be  tendered  j 

to  those  who  are  interested  in  the  truly  benevolent  reforms  of  the  $ 

tay.—ffodey'e  Lady's  Book.  \ 

The  paper,  the  engravings,  the  binding,  and  the  literary  con-  ? 

tents,  are  all  calculated  to  make  it  a  favourite. — Penn.  Inquirer.  ? 

This  volume  cannot  be  too  highly  recommended. — N.  T.  T>*~  | 
bune. 

More  good  has  been  effected,  than  by  any  other  single  median  ? 
that  we  know  of. — N.  Y.  Sun. 

The  work  should  be  upon  the  centre-table  of  every  paren*  i*  \ 
the  land.— National  Temperance  Magazine. 

LEAVES  FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  HITMAN  LIFE.    \ 

Large  12mo.    328  pages.    With  30  illustrations  and  Btad     j> 
plate.    $1.00. 

NOTICES    OF  THE   PRESS. 

A  single  story  is  worth  the  price  charged  for  the  book.—  Ifefc*     i 
Hneburyport,  Mau. 


,    GOLDEN  GRAINS  FROM  LIFE'S  HARVEST. 

FIELD,  bound  in  full  gilt,  with  a  beautiful  mezzotint  engrtr. 
ing.    12mo.    240  pages.    75  ots. 

NOTICES    OF  THE   PRESS. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that  the  Golden  Grains  here  pro- 
•cnted  to  the  reader,  are  such  as  will  be  productive  of  a  far 
greater  amount  of  human  happiness  than  those  in  search  of  which 
go  many  are  willing  to  risk  domestic  peace,  health,  and  even  life 
itself,  in  a  distant  and  inhospitable  region. 

These  narratives,  like  all  of  those  which  proceed  from  the  same 
able  pen,  are  remarkable  not  only  for  their  entertaining  and 
lively  pictures  of  actual  life,  but  for  their  admirable  moral  ten- 
dency. 

It  is  printed  in  excellent  style,  and  embellished  with  a  mezzo- 
tint engraving.  We  cordially  recommend  it  to  the  favour  of  our 
readers.— Qodttft  Lady's  Magazine. 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A  BAR  ROOM,  AND  WHAT  1 

SAW  THERE.  This  powerfully  written  work,  the  last  and 
best  by  its  popular  Author,  is  meeting  with  immense  sales,— 
ten  thousand  copies  baring  been  ordered  within  a  month  of 
publication.  Young  men  wishing  to  do  good,  and  at  the  same 
time  make  money,  will  find  a  rare  chance  in  selling  this  book. 
It  is  a  large  12mo,  of  240  pages,  illustrated  with  a  beautiful 
mezzotint  engraving,  by  Sartain ;  printed  on  fine  white  pa- 
per, and  bound  in  the  best  English  muslin,  gilt  back,  and  sold 
at  75  cents.  In  extra  full  gilt  edge,  back  and  sides,  $1.00. 

ff«  FOLLOWING  ARE  A  FEW  OF  THE  MANY  NOTICES  OF  THE  PHJSSS1 

This  is  a  temperance  volume,  written  in  the  author's  plain, 
keart-searching  style. — Dollar  Newspaper. 

This  volume  is  the  last  of  those  admirable  temperance  tales,  by 
which  the  author  is  doing  and  has  done  so  much  good. — Ertninp 
Bulletin. 

Power's!  ana  seasonable  — N.  Y.  Independent. 


Its  scenes  are  painfully  graphic,  and  furnish  thrilling  argu- 
ments for  the  temperance  cause. — Norton' »  Lit.  Gazette. 

Written  in  the  author's  most  forcible  and  vigorous  style.— 
fchigk  Val.  Times. 

In  the  "Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar-room,"  some  of  the  consequence! 
»f  tavern-keeping,  the  "sowing  of  the  wind"  and  "reaping  the 
wLirlwind"  are  followed  by  a  "fearful  consummation,"  and  the 
"closing  scene,"  presenting  pictures  of  fearful,  thrilling  interest 
One  touching  passage  supplies  the  beautiful  mezzotint  illustra- 
tions by  Sartain. — Am.  Courier. 

The  sketches  are  powerfully  written,  to  show  the  downward 
career  of  the  tempter  and  the  tempted,  and  the  inevitable  rain 
which  must  follow.  There  is  no  exaggeration  in  these  pages — 
they  seem  to  have  been  filled  up  from  actual  observation.  Mr. 
Arth»ir  has  given  efficient  aid  to  the  cause  of  reform  by  these  in- 
tensely interesting  sketches,  and  we  predict  for  them  an  exten- 
sive sale.— Philadelphia  Sun. 

The  exciting  influences  of  the  wine  cup,  its  consequent  respon- 
sibility, and  the  inevitable  results  accruing  from  a  free  indulgence 
in  the  intoxicating  draught,  are  not  only  truthfully,  but  vividly 
portrayed  in  the  author's  best  style. — Daily  Newt. 

This  is  a  strong  temperance  book,  from  the  prolific  pen  of  » 
popular  writer.—  U.  S.  Journal. 

We  are  glad  to  see  Mr.  Arthur  again  in  the  temperance  field. 
He  has  long  been  one  of  our  best  writers. — Journal  Am.  Tern. 
Union. 

Arthur's  tales  usually  bear  a  character  of  simplicity  and  truth- 
fulness possessing  strong  attractions  for  the  generality  of  readers, 
and  especially  for  those  in  the  daily  enjoyment  of  country  life. 
He  seldom  seems  to  study  for  effect,  except  it  be  in  closely  por- 
traying real  life.  In  these  aspects  the  work  before  us  is  emi- 
nently successful — N.  Y.  Sun. 

Tbe  book  exhibits  many  of  the  horrors  of  bar-room  life,  with- 
out however  being  defaced  by  some  of  its  most  disgusting  pro. 
Unities  and  brutalities.— Saturday  Evening  Pott. 

We  have  read  it  with  the  most  intense  interest,  and  commend  £ 

it  as  a  work  calculated  to  do  an  immense  amount  of  good — La».  ( 

tatter  Expret* 


^N  t  hav»  given  this  excellent  work  a  careful  perneal,  and  un- 
hesitatingly recommend  it  to  all  lovers  of  good  reading.  It  illus- 
trates rum-drinking  so  truthfully,  that  the  most  skeptical  mast 
confess  that  the  truth  is  not  exaggerated.  We  wish  that  all 
lovers  of  bar-rooms  and  rum  would  read  the  book.  It  will  pay 
them  richly  to  do  so.— N.  Y.  Northern  Blade. 

It  is  sufficient  commendation  of  this  little  volume  to  say  that  U 
b  from  the  graphic  pen  of  T.  S.  Arthur,  whose  works  will  be  read 
and  re-read  long  after  he  has  passed  away.  He  is  as  true  to  na- 
ture, as  far  as  he  attempts  to  explore  it,  as  Shakspeare  himself, 
and  his  works,  consequently,  have  an  immense  popularity.  The 
best  of  all  is,  that  his  writings  tend  to  make  men  better  as  well 
as  wiser.  This  little  volume  is  a  thrilling  temperance  story, 
showing  the  progress  from  temptation  to  utter  ruin,  and  the 
remedies  for  the  evils  set  forth.  The  volume  is  beautifully  printed 
and  bound. — New  Haven  Palladium. 

It  is  one  of  the  tales  of  an  author  who  has  no  superior  in  the 
country  in  developing  the  different  passions  of  the  human  heart.— 
,V*sw  Haven  Jour.  &  Courier. 

There  are  many  scenes  unequalled  for  pathos  and  beauty,  and 
many,  too,  which  are  painful  in  their  sharply-defined  outlines  of 
horror  and  profanity.  The  death  of  little  Mary  can  scarcely  be 
surpassed,  while  the  closing  pages  of  the  book,  picturing  the 
downfall  of  the  tavern,  amid  the  wreck  of  worldly  hopes  and  the 
ruin  of  every  thing  that  makes  life  worth  the  living  for,  a  dark 
climax  of  vice  and  unrestrained  indulgence,  in  their  sad  and 
necessary  results,  are  too  gloomy  and  too  painfully  real  for  com- 
ment.— N.  Y.  Home  Journal. 

This  is  the  title  of  a  new  temperance  tale  by  T.  S.  Arthur,  who 
has  been  very  successful  in  works  of  this  kind.  His  pictures  arc 
vividly  drawn,  and  his  sketches  of  thrilling  interest — Newark 
(N.  J.)  Eagle. 

A  new  temperance  volume,  which  displays  the  dark  sides  ot 
tar-room  life,  and  the  general  intent  is  to  favour  the  passage  of  < 
prohibitory  law.— Newark  (N.  J.)  Advertiser. 


TUB  FIRESIDE  ANGEL.     64  pages,  32mo,  with    , 
»D  engraving.    Bound  in  muslin,  gilt  edges.    25  coats. 


MORAL  TALES  FOR  THE  PEOP  J 


VOL.  I. 


A  STORY  FOR  MY  YOUNG  COUNTRYWOMEN 

VOL.  II. 

WB&    Will. 

A  STORY  FOR  MY  YOUNG  COUNTRYWOMEN. 

VOL.  ni. 

A  STORY  FOR  MY  YOUNG  COUNTRYWOMEN 

VOL.  IV. 

OR,  MARRIAGE  AND  CELIBACY  CONTRASTS 

IN  A  SEEIES  OF  DOMESTIC  PICTURES. 


8 

VOL.  V. 


A  STOR/  OF  MARRIED  LIFE. 


VOL.  VI. 

J.KP 


OR,  BEFORE  AND  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


VOL.  VIL 


9 

OR,  THE  RUNAWAY  MATCH 


OR,  THE   iNBiSCRETiON. 


VOL.  VIII. 


AN  AMERICAN  STORY  OF  REAL  LJFE. 


9 

VOL.  IX. 


&ft  A  OAUGHTER'S  LOVE  AND  OTHER  TALES. 


VOL.X, 


VOL.  XL 


mmnmmm 

OR,  TWO  ERAS  !N  MY  LiFE 


10 
VOL.  XII. 


i 

OF,  THE  PALACE  AND  THE  POOR  HOUSE, 

A  Romance  of  Real  Life. 


WHICH  MAKES  THE  LADY. 


The  p.bove  twelve  volumes,  18mo.,  Muslin,  Gilt  Back,  ma; 
be  had  separately,  or  in  Boxes  containing  the  sett  38  Gents 
per  Volume. 

Also,  in  Four  Volumes,  12mo.,  Muslin,  Gilt  Back.  $1.  each. 


"  They  are  the  very  best  of  Mr.  Arthur's  moral  tales,  and  should  be 
a  fixture  in  every  household,  being  not  only  pleasant  stories,  but  the 
purest  of  moral  lessons.  If  such  fictions  only  as  these  were  placed  in  the 
bands  of  our  young  people,  and  adopted  as  models,  we  would  have  uo  rea- 
»on  to  fear  for  them,  whatever  their  condition  in  life  might  be."— City  Item. 

"The  honorable  and  virtuous  sentiments,  and  the  practical  good  sen* 
which  pervades  all  the  works  of  Mr.  Arthur,  are  conspicuous  in  the  coo- 
touts  of  the  moral  library."— Godey's  Lady's  Boole. 

"  Mr.  Arthur's  moral  stories  have  justly  received  high  commendation, 
Their  object  is  to  Improve,  refine,  and  elevate  the  mind  and  the  manners." 
Alexandria,  Gazette. 

"  They  are  all  of  thrilling  interest,  and  high  moral  tendencies,  Mi 
•houldbe  in  every  family."— Fredrickttntry  Va.  Ntvt 


11 


anl  10pkr  Cales. 


COMPLETE  IN  FOTTB  12mo.  VOLS. 


"HE    FOLLOWDfS  TOLTIMES   ARB   PRINTED   ON  yiNK  WHTTB 
PAPER,   AND   NEATLY  BOUND   IN 

Embossed  Cloth,  gilt  back,  at  $1.00  each;  or, 
Embossed  Cloth,  gilt  back,  edges  and  sides,  at  $1.50. 


ty  f  Ije  Jifc  o 

•fxtnom 
TEE  MAIDEN.     THE  WIFE.     THE  MOTHEB, 


of  ^ried  Jife. 

OONTAJNINQ 

.OVERS  AND  HUSBANDS.    SWEETHEARTS  AND  TKEIB 
WIVES.     MARRIED  AND    SINGLE 


L~ 


12 

of  £oh)esfic  Jife. 


OOKTAIMIKa 

MADELINE.  I  HEIRESS. 

MAETYB  WIFE.  THE   GAMESTEB, 


JVoh}  fy*l  Jife. 


BELL  MABTIN.  |  FAMttY  PEIDE. 

PEIDE  AND  PEINCIPLE.  |  MAEY  ELLIS. 

ALICE   MELVILLE. 

8*ntyer  Mail,  at  above  pricut;pottage  paid. 

The  above  12  vols.  18mo,  and  the  same  bound  in  4  vols.  J 
"*  known  as 

ARTHUR'S 


Agents  will  find  pleasant  and  profitable  employment  in  circn. 
lating  these  works  in  all  parts  of  the  United  State*  «i,n<l  Canada 


The  six   following   books   are   bound  in   uniforn. 
*yle,as 

"ARTHUR'S  COTTAGE  LIBRARY," 

and  are  sold  in  sets  or  separately,  each  volume 
being  complete  in  itself.  Each  volume  contains 
over  200  pages,  large  18mo,  and  is  embellished 
with  a  fine  mezzotint  engraving : 

THE  WAY  TO  PROSPER,  AND  OTHER 

TALES 50  cts 

I 
THE  HOME  MISSION 50  cte. 

TRUE  RICHES;  OR,  WEALTH  WITH- 
OUT WINGS 50  eta 

FINGER-POSTS    ON    THE    WAY    OF 

LIFE 50  cts. 

SHADOWS  AND  SUNBEAMS 50  CM 


ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD 50  eta. 

1 


14 

3  RE  AT  EVENTS  IN  MODERN  HISTORY.  Com- 

prising  the  most  remarkable  discoveries,  conquests,  revolu- 
tions, great  battles,  and  other  thrilling  incidents,  chiefly  ia 
Europe  and  America,  from  the  commencement  of  the  six-  J 

tecnth  century  to  the  present  time.  Embellished  with  over 
600  engravings  by  W.  CROOHE,  and  other  eminent  artists.  ; 

$3.00. 

NOTICES    Or   THB    PRESS. 

"We  bar*  here,  within  the  compass  of  eight  hundred  pages,  the 
history  of  tboae  events  of  modern  history  which  have  been  'big 
with  mighty  consequences,'  and  with  which,  therefore,  all  men 
should  become  acquainted.  Beginning  with  the  discovery  of 
**nerica  by  Columbus — that  new  starting-point  of  civilization — 
tne  work  proceeds  through  the  history  of  the  various  European  ! 

nations,  culling  those  great  periods  when,  either  by  wars  or  revo-  { 

lutions,  each  nation  began  to  occupy  a  conspicuous  place  in  the 
general  estimation  of  men,  and  to  make  its  influence  felt  by  those 
without  its  limits.  The  late  revolutions  in  Europe,  the  Mexican 
war,  and  the  gold  discoveries  in  California,  are  rapidly  and  vividly 
sketched.  The  illustrations,  principally  from  designs  by  Croome,  ' 

are  numerous,  well  executed,  serving  to   impress   the  striking  / 

scenes  and  characters  of  history  upon  the  tablet  of  memory.  The 
whole  work,  in  design  and  execution,  reflects  great  credit  upon 
all  concerned  in  its  production." 

THRILLING  ADVENTURES  AMONG  THE  IN- 

DIANS.  Comprising  the  most  remarkable  personal  narra 
tives  of  events  in  the  early  Indian  wars,  as  well  as  of  inci 
dents  in  the  recent  Indian  hostilities  in  Mexico  and  Texas 
Illustrated  with  over  300  engravings,  from  designs  by  W 
CROOHB,  and  other  distinguished  artists.  $1.75. 

NOTICES   OF   THE   PRESS. 

"The  matter  contained  in  this  handsome  volume  is  as  well  cal-  ' 

eulated  to  give  a  correct  idea  of  the  character  of  the  Indians  and 
th«ir  modes  of  lift,  as  that  of  any  book  ever  published.  All  that 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below. 


REC'D  LO-URl 
-J'Vj  1985 

UAN23B86 

• 


MAR  11 


Arthur 


1039   Tales  from 
A78ta 


PS 

1039 

A?8ta 


